


Red Star Rising

by telemachus



Series: Rising-verse [16]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, F/M, Gen, Gimli will arrive eventually, M/M, elves are different, oh god so much angst, sad child, story spans the third age, thranduil's parenting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-22
Updated: 2014-04-03
Packaged: 2018-01-16 15:33:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 32
Words: 96,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1352608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/telemachus/pseuds/telemachus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is the story of Caradhil - a Mirkwood elf, born at the end of the Second Age. He lives through the Third Age.<br/>Watches the royal family of Mirkwood from a different perspective.<br/>As ever, this fits with Just Maybe, and hence all my other stories (so far!). so there will be some Legolas/Gimli - but not until Gimli is alive......</p><p>rated teen for angst, sad child, dysfunctional family, swearing in later chapters, lots of angst.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Elves are very odd. They have a lot of different customs.

“...........Lais-gin gelin eldhenthaid.” Caradhil sighs, brushes his hand over his face, and stops singing. This furlough back at the Halls is not as he had expected. In fact, he will almost be glad to start duties here next season. After all the months of looking forward to time off, to no patrols, to being able to drink as much as he wants, comb with who he likes, maybe even spend time away from his group, admit to himself there are elves in his group he would prefer not to spend time with – after all those months – yes, all these things have happened, but......

But he had not thought. He had not stopped to think how different the Halls would be now. This is the first time he has come home to find no parents waiting. It is long since they marched away to the battle on the plains of Dagorlad, and like so many came not back – but this is the first time he has returned to – no-one. It is harder than he expected, it brings back all the loss, all the pain, for all he knows they are with Mandos, that they are at peace, that they are safe, and for all he trusts the Valar that one day he will see them again, he misses them. He had not expected that.

Nor had he expected all the other changes to these Halls. No queen – he knew she had gone West, she was gone before they left – but – but no-one had said how changed the Halls still are. Whether because he was a fool not to expect it, or because no-one likes to talk about it (they are Silvan, not Noldor, they do not endlessly talk about emotions, they are too busy fighting and existing and taking pleasure where it can be found), - for whatever reason, he had not known the Halls would be so settled in their changed, darker form. The King so much changed. 

Always they have been a defended, closed nation – but – but there has previously been an underlying elvish need for song, for cheer, for pleasure. Now – now their King is grieving. He seems – colder. Sterner than the elf Caradhil remembers. The elf-prince he remembers playing with his sons, teaching them their weapons, combing with them and his wife, as Caradhil’s Ada and Naneth taught him, played with him, combed with him. The prince that they knew might one day be their king – but who was, for all his Sindar hair and heritage, just another elf. An elf who drank, combed, sang, laughed – but – blond. So unusual to look upon in this Forest of Silvans. Caradhil remembers asking his Ada, why – why does the prince look different – why do they all look different? He remembers the answer – they are Sindar, they are wise, that is why we have them to guide us, to be our Kings. He still believes his Ada’s words, but – wise their King still is, yet – he has changed from that prince Caradhil remembers.

Rumour has it, the King no longer combs even his sons. That is, his older sons. Rumour has it he has never touched the young one, the new one, the cause of all this. This new young prince, this – Legolas – this new green leaf. Supposed to show all was well, that this kingdom was back on its feet, regained its strength, a power again, after the massacre on the plains of Dagorlad. That despite losing so many – and Caradhil shivers, knowing it was his good fortune to be just too young to go that means he is alive – despite losing their King, Oropher, who Caradhil remembers as the one who first awarded him his hunter’s braids, despite that, they had a new King in Thranduil, a King who would be as great as his father. 

And for a time it seemed all was well. True, things were – quieter – with so many gone, but – they are elves – they have Iluvatar’s promise – those who are gone will be with Mandos, they will be safe, they will come again when the time is right. 

Thranduil is a good king, strong, decisive, kind – his people love him, he built up the kingdom, gave them hope. Promised to keep them away from the troubles brought down by Men and Noldor, the errors they would make. Caradhil was not the only one who believed in him – they all did. The Halls were built anew, in this part of the Forest, the old Halls left as a southern outpost, perhaps to be used again in time – if elves can bear to return to whence so many set forth and came not back. Their King can deal with other races, he just likes to keep that distance, but the trade with those outside the Forest has been established. Wine, food, all that they need or want comes in to them, and the wood, the harvest of the Forest goes out. All seemed so good. A proper Silvan life. Wine, song, trees, hunting.  
Combing.

And then, not so very long before Caradhil’s group was sent out on patrol – a new prince. Willed into being by his parents to show a new start, to be a royal elfling born in the Forest. 

Caradhil remembers the joy, the baby held up for all to see, brought to feasts, shown off. At first. 

At first, if the queen was not often around, did not hold the babe – no-one questioned it. She was tired. She was a warrior, a jeweller by trade anyway, not a carer. She – she had had three sons, a fourth was no new excitement. She was tired. All would be well.

But – something went wrong. Caradhil does not know, it is not his business to know, what went wrong. There has been no talk, no whisper of anything wrong with the boy – except perhaps – that he is a boy. Perhaps another boy, so soon after the death of their firstborn on those plains, in that battle – perhaps another boy was too much a reminder. Perhaps the queen was just too tired. Too – worn out to start again. To deal with another elfling. To care. To realise that by leaving she would break not only her husband, but their King. 

And so – now the elfling is not much about. Caradhil has not seen him since returning to the Halls. Certainly he seems not to be ever with his father or his brothers – Caradhil has seen them, the King in his throne room, the brothers – inseparable. Rumour has it they are become – best avoided. Wilful, is the word used – and he wonders if another would be were not those speaking so devoted to their King. Perhaps the little one has been sent to live elsewhere, somewhere there are others for him to learn with. That might be best.

 

It is long since he has seen the elfling, yet not as long as he has been on patrol. For – elflings wander. Wood-elves cannot help but want to explore any forest they find.

Caradhil remembers that moment, that moment on patrol when he stopped, as if by instinct, knowing there was someone near. Looking around. Listening.

Realising that the sound he could hear was breathing. Not an animal, an elf. Following the sound, anxious lest there was someone hurt. Finding – curled under a bush – oh Valar – finding an elfling. Knowing immediately, from the hair, that this was the prince. 

Those frightened eyes, so huge in that face, the tension in his body, all screaming out to Caradhil, who is by no means an expert, that this elfling needed careful handling.

Holding out his hand, slowly, saying,  
“Come out, little one, it is quite safe. No-one will harm you. Come out. Come to Caradhil,” over and over, quietly, as though speaking to some wild creature – not knowing how else to speak to one so small. Not absolutely sure he was understood, not knowing if the elfling could speak, or could understand his accent – this is a Sindar, after all, presumably he speaks perfectly, no Silvan twist to his words. Until at last he crawled out, and, flinching away, and that worried Caradhil more than anything else, said, in words that spoke of how little time he spends among his own and how much with Caradhil’s people,

“I – I am sorry. I – I did not mean to get lost. I – I – please do not let them tell Ada. Please.”

For an instant, he did not understand,  
“Little one, your Ada must know you are safe. He will be worried.”

Seeing the tears well up and begin to course down the well-washed lines on the grubby cheeks, and  
“No, please, he will be so cross. I – I did not mean to run. I – I was only playing. They were playing – I – I know they did not mean it really.”

Who? Who did not mean what? Is it worth questioning one so small – will his words make sense, none could wish to frighten him, not in his father’s realm. Caradhil was not sure what to do, what to say – he has no elfling, he knows no elflings. He is a hunter, nothing more. Taking the little hand, and saying,  
“Come with me. We will see what my group leader says. Perhaps if you have not been gone too long we can get you home safe without them knowing.”  
“They – they must not – you will not – please? Ada – please – no. He will be cross with me, not them. Please.”  
His leader, of course, has a horse. It is well for a group to have one, in case of urgent news. She also has known elflings.  
“It will be nothing, get him back to the palace before dusk, and no more will come of it. You can ride, Caradhil, put him in front of you, and hasten. Clean him up when you get there, they will ask no questions. Let them think you found him near the Halls. I was going to send a report in tomorrow – take it now.”

Leading the elfling to the horse, realising that he is shaking with – fear? – saying,  
“Little one, what is it you are so scared of?”  
And those eyes looking up, looking down, the face flushing – ears first – and  
“I – I am not scared. Princes are not allowed to be scared. I – I just – I have never – the horse is very big.”

Realising that this elfling has never been on a horse. Thinking, but his father is a skilled rider, his brothers ride all the time, how can this be? Remembering the first time – no, not the first time, he cannot remember the first time, just a time – that his Ada took him with him, when he was hastening somewhere. That joy, that speed, that height.  
“It is alright. I – I have ridden since I was younger than you. This is a most friendly horse. Come, speak to her, give her some apple – she will not let you fall. I will not let you fall.”  
Watching as the elfling cautiously pats the horse, speaks as he is bid, shares the apple – and Caradhil realises this is probably not Sindar behaviour, but he is a Silvan, and it was done before he thought, a bite for him, a bite for the elfling, a bite for the horse, as his Ada taught him. Then leaping astride, and reaching down to lift the little one up, feeling him still afraid. Leaning round him to speak to the horse, tell her where to go, and then the ride. Holding the elfling to him, as his Ada held him so many years before, feeling him gradually stop shaking, relax. 

“See? Little one, it is not so bad, is it? I have you. Caradhil will not let you fall. Ever.”  
“N-no. It is a lot faster than running, isn’t it?”

Caradhil smiles, this is barely faster than a walk.  
“It can be. Shall we ask her to go faster? She will jump if there are any fallen trees – it is like flying. Yes?” he waits, but there is only a shiver in response, so he says again, “Caradhil is here. You are safe. I will protect you, take care of you, little one, I will not let you fall.”

And as the elfling nods, shakily, clutching at his arms, Caradhil speaks to the mare, and she tosses her mane, and stretches her legs into a canter, smoothest and most comfortable of gaits.

Caradhil feels the elfling’s grasp ease as he understands this is safe, this is comfortable. And as they slow, approaching the Halls, the face looks up at him, tears forgotten, shining with pleasure,  
“Oh, Caradhil, that was wonderful. Can – can I ride with you again?”

He smiles,  
“Maybe, my little prince. But – any elf can ride. Your brothers, your Ada, anyone will take you if you ask.”

The face turns away.  
“Ada is – busy. My brothers – are not – not so kind. I – I will ask others but – but I had much rather go with you again.”

Caradhil wonders at this. He did not have older brothers, but – he can remember friends who did, who were forever being fussed over. Perhaps Sindar are different. Yet – he remembers the three princes he saw grow up together, sharing everything, so close. He remembers wishing he had a brother or sister.  
“And I you, little one, but – by the time I am back at the Halls, you will be riding alone,” he has a thought, “and you had best not come out to find us again. We move around a lot – you could be alone over night.” And you would not like that, he thinks. 

The prince smiles up at him,  
“But – even if I could ride alone, I would rather not, I think.”

Caradhil smiles back,  
“Come now, we are here,” he hesitates, “shall I see you to your chamber? Or – or should I tidy you up out here first? You – you do look a bit – as though you have been up a tree, and through a bush, and on a horse.” And crying, he does not add.

The elfling nods,  
“Can you tidy me a bit? I – I will be in a lot of trouble if they realise I have been so far.”

So, while the mare takes herself off to find water, and probably apples, Caradhil kneels down in this quiet clearing and learns just how difficult it is to clean a small grubby face and hands, when one has only the hem of your own tunic to do it with. Fortunately the elfling is very patient. When it is done, Caradhil realises he still looks – unkempt.

“I – I think you would be better for being combed. Have you your comb? I will watch you, see that it is done properly, if you like?”

But the elfling shakes his head,  
“No, I – I do not carry it. I – I only lose things. Or – bother people. I have to leave it in my room.”

That is odd. Elves always carry their combs. Surely. And – if one so small were to ask for combing – who could refuse? Sindar are strange. There seems only one solution, and he is aware it is perhaps not proper – Caradhil hesitates, but – this is necessary. Besides, if anyone were to know, he would be in trouble for more than just this last.

“I have mine. Will you – will you borrow it?” he offers it, and it is taken. But – the ride, the scramble under the bush, the running, it has snarled up even elf-hair beyond the skill of one so small, and Caradhil now realises, so tired.

“I cannot, I – I cannot. I will look un-combed – I – I will be in so much trouble – he – they will be so angry,” he is very tired, his lip is beginning to tremble, and those eyes fill up with tears again. Caradhil bites his own lip, he did not want to do this, to use his own comb on a prince, as though he had a right to – but he cannot leave any elfling like this.

“Give it here. I will comb you. But – best not to say so. Best to let anyone think you did it. Even with my comb,” he hesitates, then adds, “best not to mention it at all really.”

“I am sorry. I – I did not mean to bother you. I – I should not have asked.” 

Caradhil is horrified, he did not mean that,  
“No little one, you did not ask, and I – I would not mind if you had. But I offered, it is necessary. It is not that it is a bother. It – I just do not want you to be in trouble for letting a hunter comb you, for using my comb. Your Ada, your brothers would not like it.” He is working busily, and does not see the expression on the elfling’s face.

After a bit, he is nearly done, the hair is so fine, it falls into place fast enough when you can see what you are doing.  
“There,” he says, “shall – shall I braid it as well? It might be quicker. Or you can, if you prefer?” he offers the comb, but the child looks up at him, and says,

“Please, you. I – I like you doing it. Your hands are kind.” And although he is by no means the first to say this, Caradhil finds he is quite absurdly pleased, as he tries to remember how to do a child’s braid.

“There. All done. Now, off with you. And – Legolas – next time – wait until you are assigned to a patrol.” He smiles gently at the little elfling, and watches him go, hoping he will not really be in trouble. At the edge of the clearing, he turns and says,

“Thank you Caradhil. I – I would like to be in your patrol one day,” and is gone.

Caradhil sighs, and goes to deliver his report, and ride back to his group.

That was then. He wonders where that elfling is now, and whether he has learnt to ride yet. He probably is better away from the Halls.

 

Whatever. Caradhil shakes himself. The royal family is not his to worry over. He is on leave. There is wine. There is song. There are plenty to comb with – he has not been short of offers. But right now, he is here, at the archery range, because he feels he should keep in practice, and it has been several weeks now – nothing to an elf, but – he is hopeful that he might be under consideration for promotion within the group, it would not do to be seen to be easing off too much.

And so, he reaches for his bow and begins to practise. He is not alone – of course not – and there is enough banter and games and competition that the time passes quickly. He is too engrossed in his own skill to even glance at the elves who come to watch, there are always spectators for everything – this is the Halls of the Forest, these are Silvans – privacy, aloneness is – is not part of life.

He doesn’t see the lone blond elfling watching them all. Staring at Caradhil with a look in his eyes that is not often there – a look of hope.  
But Caradhil doesn’t see him.

No-one ever does.

 

But next day, next day, Caradhil decides to practice earlier. While the range is quiet – while there are less elves around, while he can actually work on the things that need practice without having to keep up with the talking, the singing, the competition. Which would be fine, if it weren’t for the shouts coming from another practice area – it is distracting. He turns to an elf he knows slightly, who has been at the Halls much longer;

“The shouting – what....?”he can’t think of a good way to phrase his question.

The other smiles, “Oh, that’s the way to get good sword work from a reluctant pupil apparently,” they exchange raised eyebrows, knowing it is certainly not, “although, some might say that the elfling would be best just left alone. He doesn’t have the – what is it Men call it – the killer instinct. Not that it matters. Time enough, you’d think.”

“Elfling?” Caradhil is surprised – he has not noticed any elflings around since he has been here – he had assumed most with families prefer to be in their own homes, not at the Halls, which has really always been a place for soldiers, and courtiers.

“Legolas. The prince,” and in answer to Caradhil’s confusion, “you have lost track of time – he is barely a child anymore. Not much else yet though. You have been on patrol more than two decades remember – elflings grow.”

Caradhil sighs, and supposes he is right. It has been a long time. When he left, the new prince was still very small, and all were still rejoicing. Now, he is learning the arts of war (or, from the sound of it, not) and all are – not rejoicing.

After a time, he realises the shouting has ceased, and as he and Brethylf – a goodly name for a kind-seeming elf, he thinks – begin a friendly speed shoot to finish off, he does notice they are being watched. The elfling is blond – it must be the prince – but he stands, half-hidden behind a tree, as though he does not think he should be there. Not how one would expect any Thranduilion to stand, anywhere.

As they collect their arrows after the final shot, he meets Brethylf’s eyes, and again they communicate with looks – and before the elfling can realise, they walk over to him. Brethylf, who has had longer to become accustomed to the lack of deference this prince commands, puts a hand on his shoulder as he clearly thinks to flee, and says;

“Watching again? When are you going to start with a bow – much longer and it will be too late?”

Caradhil sees how the child – it is no good, this is a child even if he is also a prince – drops his eyes to the ground and flushes before he can manage to answer;

“Ada – Ada says I must use a sword. Not a bow.”

Caradhil and Brethylf again look at each other, then Caradhil says;

“Well, for fighting perhaps. But – not for hunting, little one. You want to try, don’t you?” and when he nods, Caradhil begins removing his wrist bracers, for no elf is happy shooting or watching another shoot without them, while Brethylf goes to find a smaller, hunting and practice bow. 

They are surprised. Surprised how quickly the prince, for with a bow in his hand, suddenly he almost looks a prince, begins to pick up the skills. The stance, the aim, the speed is all there. He has been watching to some purpose. But – 

“You will have to practise for the strength. Not to twist off target. Practice, practice, practice,” Brethylf says, and Caradhil adds, “just as we do. Every day for the rest of your life. You will need your own bow, your own bracers.........” and the child’s shoulders slump in defeat as he says again, hopelessly,

“But Ada says I must use a sword.”

The two elves look at each other, they do not want to go against the King, but this makes no sense. Every elf can shoot, every elf must shoot in this Forest. They have both seen the older princes shoot, indeed, the King has been known to hunt, though – it is true, he does not use a bow. But – few elves can resist a child’s need, and they find that between them they have enough spares that they can give him the things he requires to start practising;

“And when he sees how well you are doing, your Ada will be pleased. Especially if you keep working at your sword-use, and your other lessons. You cannot have too many skills, too many weapons at your command. Tell him you wish to hunt when you are older – bows are not just for fighting.”

He nods, slowly, and says,  
“I thank you for your time. I – I remember you, Caradhil, you – you took me on a horse once. I – I am sorry to be a nuisance again. I will practice with this bow. But – I will not tag after you again. I am sorry to have bothered you.”

And he turns to go. Caradhil finds it heartbreaking, and cannot stop himself;

“Legolas,” he calls, “I will be here tomorrow – most days – I will hope to see you.”

There is a pause in the elfling’s stride, and he glances back with a flash of what will one day, Caradhil thinks, be a most beautiful smile, before he ducks his head again, and continues on his way.

Brethylf looks at Caradhil, 

“You have won yourself a shadow I suspect. Better hope we are right, that his Ada won’t mind – or you will be on long patrol for many more years.”

He shrugs in return, 

“You were about to say the same. Why shouldn’t he learn to shoot? No reason he can’t do both,” and, answering the unspoken thought, “besides, I have no One, no family as yet – there are not enough elflings in these Halls to neglect the only one there is.”

“Be careful who you say that to.”

 

So the days pass. Caradhil finds he has a good friend and practice partner in Brethylf, and once they start combing together begins to hope they can both manage to stay at the Halls for a few seasons. – They are not ready to become combmates, they are still very much at the stage of inviting each other to join their groups, but, maybe one day soon....

He also finds his new friend was right. He does have a shadow – but only on the archery practice range. He never sees the elfling anywhere else, and he begins to wonder about this.

“Legolas,” he asks, as they are collecting arrows, “what do you do when you are not here or,” gesturing to the dreaded sword-practice area, “there? Do you never come to feasts in the Hall? I see your brothers, but not you?”

“They are grown. I – I do not know them well. I –“ he pauses, searching for words, “I have lessons, I ride, I – I like to walk in the forest.”

There is something missing here. Caradhil knows he should not ask, but he cannot help himself,

“With other elflings? Or – not your brothers? Your Ada?”

Again that flush, that downward glance, “No. There are no other elflings here.” He bites his lip, and Caradhil feels something cramp inside him as he says proudly, “I do not need to ride with anyone. Not now. I know the forest. I do not stray where I should not – I am safe alone.”

Caradhil nods, “Of course. You are very sensible.” What else can he say? After all, perhaps Sindar like to be alone. It seems odd to a Silvan, but – perhaps that is why they can rule.

 

The seasons pass. Caradhil and Brethylf do not become combmates, but they continue to be close friends, and to comb together. They find they are moved into the same group and that suits them very well – they can comb together within the group, but need not go so far as to declare themselves. 

They continue to watch the little prince – not so little now – to help with his archery, at which he proves to be competent, and to avoid his sword lessons – which do not seem to have improved over the years.

Caradhil still thinks it is peculiar that he never sees him with his brothers. Still wonders how this can be for surely brothers are much to each other. Surely it is a bond as strong – stronger – than ordinary combmates? But – he does not know, he has no brother. Besides, he reminds himself often, what does a Silvan know of Sindar ways? 

He wonders who it was that had frightened that little one so badly that day – for he finds he is not by any means the only elf to be so fond of this little Sindar, with his shining hair, his wide eyes. Surely none of the palace elves would have scared him so? Perhaps – he said it was a game – perhaps it was other elflings.

He does not let himself think that there are no other elflings. 

He does not let himself see. 

No-one does.

 

One day, as he is walking through the Halls, Caradhil learns something he wishes he had not. He hears raised voices, and automatically hurries towards the sound – fortunately he stops before he can be seen as he recognises the older princes;

“Go away. We do not want to comb with you.”  
“No one wants to comb with you.”

“Please. I – I beg you. Please.”

“ How many times, stupid little brother, we do not want you. You sent Naneth away.”

“Please. No. I did not – I – she was my Naneth too.”

“Hardly.”  
“She wanted you no more than we do.”

“Please. No. She – no. Don’t. Please. It was not my fault.”

“You broke her heart – and Ada’s. Go away. Find someone else to comb you.”  
“We do not want you.”

Caradhil closes his eyes. He did not want to know this. He did not want to hear what he suspected. He can imagine all too well the flushed face, the eyes lowered to the ground, and although he has never seen this, he knows there is a comb being held out desperately as a voice he knows so well, a voice which is only just in control, says,

“There is no-one else. You are my brothers. You know Ada does not comb. Please. Please. Just once. I – I am so alone. Please.”

There is a sound that makes Caradhil clench his fist – no elf should slap one who offers a comb – and 

“No. Go away. It is your fault Ada does not comb. Go away.”  
“Ada loved us, Ada combed us. It is not our fault he will not touch you.”  
“No one wants to comb you.”  
“Go away. Leave us to comb together. Or you know what we will do. We will cut your hair. Then you will run after us no more.”

And Caradhil manages to push himself away from the wall he is leaning on, and flees soundlessly, before he is seen. 

But the sobbing follows him.

 

After that, Caradhil cannot help but pay attention. Cannot help but see when the elfling (for that is how he still thinks of him, he cannot manage to use his name, yet he cannot call him prince or my lord), when the elfling comes for archery practise, that his plain single child-braid is slightly crooked. As it has been for years. All this time. And all this time Caradhil had assumed that it was because whoever did it was not very skilled at child-braids, or because the elfling would not stay still. Even as he thinks this, he knows, as somewhere he has always known, that after so many years any elf would be skilled at something as simple as a child-braid, that this elfling of all elflings knows how to be still. He knows this. He did that braid once, the elfling stood so still for him. Now he wonders if that was the last time that another’s hands touched that hair. And he could weep for the pity of it.

None so blind as those who do not wish to see, he thinks – and that must be all the elves in this realm. For they love their King, they do not wish to know if there is anything he – Caradhil can hardly make himself think the words – anything he does which is unkind.

But now he understands.

The elfling must do his own braid. He is too old for a servant to dress him or braid him – yet there is no-one else. No loving Ada. No Naneth. No caring brothers. No group. 

How could any leave a little one like this? It is almost impossible for any elf to understand. Which, he supposes, is why none other has seen, has tried to do anything. Elflings are rare – so they are treasured. 

Not this one.

For several days he does nothing. He does not know what to do. Then, one evening at combing time he speaks to his group,

“The little prince – he is not so little now,” he begins, “he is on the way to being a fair archer. I – we – Brethylf and I – have spent much time with him. I wondered – would the group consider asking him to join us?”

There is a silence as hands work, as ears are stroked, hair combed and braided – or as much of a silence as any group of elves can ever manage when there is song to be sung. Then one says,

“Join us for – what?”  
“Combing did you mean?”  
“He is a bit young?”  
“A bit – blond.”  
“A bit – Sindarin.”  
“A bit – royal.”

They are unsure. Brethylf says,  
“Did you mean just combing – or weapons practice? Or what?” and he does not sound hostile, just – wondering.

Caradhil meets his eye and tries to say silently ‘I do not wish anything from him that you and I share. Ever. You are much to me.’ and aloud he says  
“I meant – practice. Maybe some duties – he should be learning them now surely? And, yes, combing – why not? If he agrees?”

Brethylf answers,  
“Why not. If his father agrees – he should learn more.” And silently, ‘I know, my Caradhil, you are much to me. And I think I may know what is in your thoughts about this elfling – I too have spent time with him. I grieve for him also.’

“But his father..?”  
“Is he not wanted in the Halls?”  
“Will not his father have other plans?”  
“A prince?”  
“Really Caradhil?”  
“You think this is wise?”  
“But – if the little one is interested?”  
“He should learn......”  
“Any king must learn somewhere.”  
“We cannot but teach him better than that swords-master.”

Ah. So Caradhil and Brethylf are not the only ones to have overheard those lessons.

They talk of other things, but the idea is returned to again and again all evening. In the end, it is agreed that Arasfaron, their leader, will speak to the king – but he insists that either Caradhil or Brethylf must be present,

“It’s your idea. You are the two who have been teaching him to shoot. If it’s to sound convincing – one of you must be there. And – if our king is not impressed with your meddling – I would have him able to see where the blame lies. I do not wish to suffer his wrath.” 

Which, thinks Caradhil, is fair enough. 

 

And so, he finds himself following Arasfaron as he goes to make his regular report to the King. There is nothing out of the ordinary this time, and they are about to be dismissed, when Arasfaron swallows, and says,

“My lord King, there was one thing. Our group – two of us – have been spending time with your son. He – he is becoming a good archer – we wondered – if you had decided with whom he should train? We – we would be happy to have him, if it would please you?”

The King looks at him silently for a long time, impassive as ever, and as the two elves begin to fear they have made a bad mistake, says,

“My son? My sons are too old for training. They are older than you.” He stops, but pinned by his eyes, they do not speak, do not know what to say. Caradhil thinks, he had begun to know it was bad, but not this bad. Then the King turns away, and adds, “I do not wish to hear if Legolas has been neglecting his swordpractice for the bow. I will speak to him about this. You have my leave to go.”

As they walk in silence back to their duties, Caradhil wonders miserably if he has made things worse for the elfling. Perhaps he should have done something more direct – perhaps he should not have fled when he overheard that sobbing. But – he is not young enough to simply scoop up in his arms and console. And too young to invite to the group without his father’s approval. This had seemed the best course, yet if all he has achieved is extra swords work and less archery – he will have done a great disservice.

 

 

Thranduil remembers Arasfaron’s words some days later, when he has finished hearing all the reports, and sends for Legolas. So, his youngest son has been running off to the archery range has he? Learning to shoot. For an unguarded instant, he recalls another life, another son, running to them, arms outstretched – ‘show me Naneth, show me’. A golden, happy child – ‘look Ada, look, I can hit the target now, I am better than my brothers, better than Thirthurun better than Throdawar, am I not, Ada?’

But he will not let himself think of those times. Will not recall them. He pulls himself back to this son, this so hard to understand, so closed off child. Not really a child anymore, he supposes. Hopes, if he is already running after warriors. Perhaps, perhaps as this one grows up he will become easier. His other sons – they were easier as they grew older. They always came to him, but – as they grew older, he needed Calenmiril to explain them less. Perhaps this one will be the same. 

Calenmiril. He closes his eyes for an instant. He should not have allowed himself to even think her name. So much would be different had she not gone West. So much would be better. If only – how could they have known she would be so broken, so hurt by another elfling, another boy. And it is as he thinks this, and braces himself against the ache in his heart, that Legolas enters.

“Ada? You – you sent for me?”

Always that hesitancy, that diffidence. How many times – you are a prince, elfling, try and act like one? 

“I have heard you have been chasing after my hunters. Distracting them from their practise, wanting to learn to use a bow.” He pauses, to see if the child has anything to say, raises an eyebrow.

“Ada, no – I –I did not – they offered. I – “the child hesitates, flushes, and looks down again – why can he never meet his eyes? “I like the bow – I thought – if I still practise with the sword – I – it is not possible to hunt with a sword,” he finishes in a rush, bringing out the phrase as though it has been learnt, and something in Thranduil twists at the thought that his son has learnt by rote a defence against him.

“Indeed,” he answers coldly, “and in your case, it would be as well to practise with as many different weapons as you can. One of them may suit.” I would not watch you die for lack of skill, I would not know you unable to switch weapons when you are damaged in battle. He does not think how the words will sound in the echoing silence between them.

“Very well,” he continues, after a pause where it is clear this son has nothing to say, “from tomorrow, find Arasfaron’s group. Ask them to train you as any other – do not expect them to give any allowances for your birth. See that it does not hinder any of your other lessons. I expect you to work hard. And do not let me hear of any trouble you have caused, do not make their work harder than it need be, ion.”

He waits, expecting the child to go, knowing there will be no thanks for this, trying not to think of others teaching his son to shoot, trying to accept that perhaps the weapon for this son is the one he can no longer use. None can aim with one eye, even when the glamour they cast is such that most have forgot the scars they carry.

The child is still standing in front of him, twisting at something in his pocket,

“What now, Legolas? I have told you what I expect.”

“Yes, Ada. I understand. But – it is the evening. I – I – please – please – just once – if –if you are not displeased with me – please Ada – I,” and Thranduil realises what his son holds in his hand.

“I do not comb. You know this. I have said this to you before. Find another. Find your brothers.” He makes a gesture of dismissal, “now, go.” And turns away.

And the elfling leaves, his comb hidden once more. 

 

 

There is no word from the palace for several days. The whole group is now worried – worried they have caused trouble, worried their King will remember them, will split them up. But there is nothing they can do, beyond await his pleasure and try not to draw any more attention to themselves.

Then, one morning, the elfling is there as they are gathering, organising themselves into small bands for the day’s spider patrol. He approaches Arasfaron, diffident as ever, 

“Captain, my – my lord King has sent me to be part of your command. He – he says I am to learn, that you are to train me as any other.” He must see the surprise in all their faces, and flushes, biting his lip and looking at the ground for a moment, then adding, “I am sorry if I am a nuisance. I – I did not ask for this. But – but I would gladly learn?”

Arasfaron, who has been dubious about this scheme, surprises them all with his unfeigned smile of welcome,

“No, you did not ask. We asked for your company. We – we would be glad to have you.” He thinks for a moment – then, “Caradhil, Brethylf, why do you not have this one with you today? Do not make his life too easy – but do not lose him.”

The day passes. The elfling is competent – more than they had expected. He does indeed know the Forest – some areas better than they do, which they suppose is not such a surprise – after all, he has never been anywhere else. His archery, when they try him, is, if not yet up to their standard, certainly adequate. He can keep up with them, through, over, under – they cannot lose him, in fact. Not that they want to. 

“We will have to try out your knife work tomorrow,” Brethylf says, as they head back to the Halls, “and I daresay Arasfaron will want to see your riding. Stalking should come naturally to you – you are an elf. You – you are coming back tomorrow aren’t you?”

“I believe so. A – my lord King said for as long as you – you would need to train any other.”

“Oh,” Caradhil laughs, “then we are stuck with you for months.” And could kick himself, as that uncertain look is back, and at the first chance, the elfling slides away. Still uncombed.

“You fool.” Brethylf is cross with him, “how could you speak to him like that? You know how he is.” Caradhil holds up his hands in apology, and Brethylf sighs, “I know, I know, you were joking, you were as you are with any. Just – just do not again. Come now – where is your comb – I am weary, I would have your hands on me, and my voice with yours tonight.” And smiling, he slings his arm around Caradhil’s shoulders, and they make their way to that glade where they will comb and reverie with their group, for it is a starlit night, and not cold.

They do not notice the elfling watching. Longing.

No one ever does.

 

Some mornings later, Arasfaron asks that they all come together at the end of the day to plan – for he wishes to carry out a proper training exercise the next day, and wants them all to talk it through,

“Even you, Legolas,” he says, “bring your comb – if you will – it is easier for elves to talk with busy hands. You need not stay longer than you will – you can join your usual group later.”

Caradhil carefully does not look to see how the elfling reacts to this – they have all noticed he does not join them, and have wondered how to change this. And why they need to – does he not understand that a fighting group combs together to form that bond that can mean life in battle?

Caradhil and Brethylf are not in charge of their trainee that day, but when the group gathers for combing and talk, they make sure to find him, and Caradhil says,

“Comb with us,” reaching out to touch his ears, “we will teach you.” And realises his mistake, as the elfling straightens himself, tosses his blond hair and gives them such an icy stare from his blue eyes, that there is little need for his words,

“I will not comb with you – I will not have your pity, I do not need your pity Caradhil, either of you. I am Thranduilion. Had you forgot?” and he turns, and stalks away to the other side of the group.

“What is wrong with you, Caradhil, you fool?” Brethylf is really angry this time, almost angry enough to look for another’s hands for the whole evening, “Why can you not think before you open your mouth?”

Caradhil reaches out to him, 

“I meant nothing, I meant not to. I – I just worry about him. Brethylf – forgive me? Comb with me?”

Brethylf looks away, his mouth held tight with anger, then sees what is happening on the far edge of the glade and has to bite his lip not to laugh. He nudges Caradhil,

“I think we need not worry – look. Your little one is – not so little. And truly his father’s son in this.”

Caradhil follows his eyes, and sees that the elfling – Legolas – not an elfling – seems to have established himself among a trio of the female warriors. And looks as though he has been combing all his life. Caradhil remembers the elder princes before they were married, he remembers the stories, passed on by proud Sindar guards, of how Thranduil was before he was married, when he was known as the party prince, of how many he combed with, never for long, always moving on, able to charm any with a smile and persuade any with a raised eyebrow. Caradhil shrugs and as he settles down with Brethylf he decides that he had best stop this worrying and concentrate on the one who is important to him.

 

Which is a wise decision as it turns out. For although Legolas stays part of their group for some seasons, he – or possibly Arasfaron – makes sure that they are not directly working together again. Caradhil and Brethylf are aware of this but as they watch their once so shy, so timid prince become skilled with his bow, with his knives and with his comb and voice, they find it matters not who is bringing this change about, it matters only that it happens. And that they are still together.


	2. Chapter 2

“...............Thaun enedh-riw! Thaun enedh-riw!  
Lais-gin gelin eldhenthaid.”

Caradhil stops singing, and wipes a hand over his brow. Contrary to popular belief, elves do sweat. Just not often. But – poling these rafts of barrels is enough to make anyone sweat in this sun. Not for the first time he is glad that Brethylf, whose skin is so pale, so easily reddened when he leaves his beloved trees, was not moved onto trading duties with him. No, Brethylf is much better off on long patrol – even if it means they will not meet again for many years. After all, years are nothing to an elf. They are good at waiting. 

Besides, he reflects, it was becoming clear that Brethylf wanted something from him he cannot give. He has had preferred combmates within his group before – and indeed since – but – Brethylf was beginning to hint at vowing to comb together for all time. And Caradhil does not think that is something he will ever be able to do. 

Brethylf would be better to find someone else. Better, he thinks, to find his One, to take marriage vows, to have an elfling. Brethylf would be a good Ada.

And the fact that this thought does not bother him at all, tells Caradhil that he was right not to try and change duties to be together. Besides, he is enjoying this chance to live outside the Forest. To meet so many Men, to see Esgaroth. He is hoping there will be chance to visit some of the other lands around the Lake – to see what farms are like, to maybe see this new hamlet – Dale? – perhaps even to meet some Naugrim. For there are rumours that Naugrim are delving into the Mountain, that they may even settle – and for all that Caradhil is an elf and has no fondness for their race – he has never met one. And it would be interesting.

But, for now, the fact that this is a good, well-bound group, with enjoyable work, and long evenings for combing, will do very nicely. That and the fact that Lalornneth has begun to show a decided preference for combing with him – and she has a wicked sense of humour.

 

Esgaroth is intriguing. Every time they stay there, Caradhil finds something else to wonder at. The many houses, each one with a family in – so many elflings – children. So many pairs. And all vowed for their lives – which are short, but, he supposes, do not seem so to them. So much conflict between families – and, one sometimes hears, within families. So much – noise. Yet so little song. It is all very odd. 

And, oddest of all, they have no king. How is this possible? At first he assumed that their ‘Master’ was simply a different word – but he has found over the years – for it has already been years, long as Men count, but nothing to an elf – he has found, that the title passes not only on death. They have some odd system where there is some kind of – he does not have words for this – but – several of the men (always men) ask to be Master – and most – or some – he is not sure – of the others are able to pick which one should have the title. It is very odd. 

There is no – no continuity. Things change with each Master. Trade agreements must be rethought. New projects are started within the town – new buildings, changes in – what was the word for the tribute they must pay – taxes. 

It is very odd. It cannot be a good system where there is no sense of things forever, things unchanging, no need to take thought for the long future, only for a season. No need for the ruler to do what is best, only what many will like.

Very foolish.

The ale is good though. A pleasant change from wine. One can drink much without becoming affected – at least, one can if one is an elf. Apparently it is different for men.

 

Luck turns his way – there is a command that some of the rafters should tour the area, should find out if there are other things that the Forest would benefit from – other foodstuffs, other crafts. Caradhil is one of the first to volunteer – and it does not escape his notice that Lalornneth is not far behind – their combing is indeed a pleasure to both of them, though once again, he is glad to remain in a group. Caradhil is not one to rush into things. At least, he supposes he might if it was love – love such as is told of in all the songs and tales. But – they say too that you know when your love, your One is near. That has not happened, he is not sure it will ever happen to him. He is not sure he believes in this love. Maybe. Maybe one day. He is an elf. He can wait.

 

The lands are interesting. It is strange to be so far from the Forest, from trees. He feels – exposed. But – it is worth it, for the stars. Who knew what it would be like to be out under stars – able to see the whole arch of the sky? Who knew? 

They sing.

 

The farms – are much as one had imagined them. They do not interest Caradhil, they are a means to an end. Doubtless there are improvements that could be made were they under some kind of overall organisation, doubtless these – peasants – do not know the best way to do things – but, really, he does not care. 

Dale, now, Dale is interesting. Only a tiny hamlet as yet, but with ideas. Already there is one who calls himself king – laughable to the elves, king of so small a realm? Yet – he has that air of command. It will be interesting to watch this town grow, this Bardolf has plans. Plans which not only include trade and ties with the Forest, but with the Naugrim. Although he is careful from the beginning – he knows of the history of elves and Naugrim, knows there could be trouble, so offers his people’s services as intermediaries. Clever. Caradhil thinks this is one to watch. But – his life will be short. And who knows what his sons will be?

So when he finds that Bardolf has no intention of letting the elves meet any of the Naugrim, Caradhil does not complain, though he is disappointed. 

He is an elf. He is good at waiting.

 

 

Caradhil enters the Hall. He has heard there is to be a feast tonight – not to welcome back those of them who have brought the report of the lands around the Lake, but because a spider nest has been cleared out. No matter, a feast is always welcome. Wine. Song. He has already spoken with one Maegsigil, a most sweet-voiced elf who he has not seen for many years, and has agreed to comb with him and his group tonight. So, all is well.

He looks as the group who are responsible for the nest clearance come in. As is not surprising in such a small kingdom, he knows many of them, has indeed combed with most of them. He runs his eye over them, wondering which is the leader – any of them could be, none of them would be offended not to be. He notices Legolas is part of this group, is definitely looking more confident than he used, is looking – well. He wears his hunter’s braids with more confidence now, they are no longer new. No longer the crooked child-braid, but straight, well-done hunter’s braids, similar to Caradhil’s own – to those of most of the elves. Except – they are that beautiful blond which says Sindar. Royal. 

The time comes for the captain of the guard to congratulate the group formally, and Tauriel stands to present the toast,  
“Well-fought, well-fought to all. We honour the brave, we salute the dead – Tulusneth.”

Caradhil drinks with the others, but is shocked – he had not heard there had been a death. He leans to Maegsigil,  
“A death? From the spiders?”

His friend shrugs,   
“It happens, occasionally, you know this. She was – unlucky.” He pauses, looks at Caradhil, “Good thing your little prince was there – he took command. No-one would have thought it. Learnt a bit from you, didn’t he?”

“Not my prince, never my prince.” Caradhil is quick to refute the implication – he does not wish for comments like that to follow him. “He was in my group for a while, that is all.”

“Indeed.” An eyebrow is raised, but Maegsigil knows how he wishes to end the evening, so is not going to jeopardise that, “tell me more of the lake, the river – tell me of this mountain?” He pauses, “but – do not tell me of Naugrim. I know of Naugrim. My kin – dead because of the cursed delving of those creatures.”

Caradhil remembers – this elf came as a refugee from Lorien, when there was fighting – a balrog, woken by Naugrim in the mines. But – they did not mean to, they paid themselves a hundred times over. He supposes it is hard to forget such things, and anyway, he has nothing to say of Naugrim, no reason to defend them to such an attractive elf.

And the talk moves on. But Caradhil cannot help but watch this new version of the prince he remembers as an uncertain elfling. Now, he is polished, quiet still, but – it is impossible to tell what he is thinking. He is indeed Thranduilion.

He is not one to forget a face though. Later, he comes to Caradhil, after the dancing has begun, when many are talking and moving, and speaks to him,

“Mae govannen, Caradhil Finbonaurion,” and Caradhil is taken aback to find he has bothered to remember or indeed discover his formal name, “I would beg forgiveness from you for my words when once you offered to comb with me. I – I was wrong to speak so. I – I would plead youth, or perhaps just foolishness? And – I would beg leave to comb with you this night among your group or mine, as you choose, that I may know your pardon, and thank you for all your past kindnesses?”

Caradhil is as short of words as it is possible for an elf to be. He had never expected such an apology, never truly thought he deserved one for his unmeant insult,

“My prince, you said nothing beyond what was true. There is no forgiveness or pardon needed. I – I would be honoured to comb with you, as would all in this Hall tonight – I do not deserve your notice.”

Legolas meets his eyes, and says, with a meaning he does not at first comprehend,

“Oh, not all, I do assure you.” And seeing Caradhil’s blank expression, slides his eyes briefly towards the King and older Princes where they sit, aloof. He meets Caradhil’s gaze again, and adds, “please, Caradhil? It would mean much to me?”

And Caradhil finds he can only nod helplessly, unable to resist those eyes, as he ever was. Then, on impulse, he takes the other’s hand and raises it to his lips, giving the kiss one would normally use to pledge service,

“My Prince, Legolas Thranduilion, I would be proud to comb with you, or to serve you, to follow you.” And is delighted to see that the flush is still as ready, and as beautiful as ever it was. 

When he has moved away, and Caradhil cannot help but notice he carries himself as straight and tall and proud as any could wish, Maegsigil touches his arm,

“So, I am to be uncombed by you tonight then?” he says, somewhere between rueful and hurt.

Caradhil shrugs, “Not by my will. I would join your group, and bring this prince? – But, I do not know the way of things at the Halls in this time. Is it likely he will have meant what he said – or was that just his courtesy?” thinking, I have never known him say anything he did not mean before – but that was many years ago, and even elves change as they grow up.

Maegsigil smiles, reassured that his desire is returned, “His courtesy? Nay, my Caradhil, he is not known for excess of that. If he says a thing in seriousness, he means it, though he can be as flighty and teasing as any ellon or elleth when he chooses. We shall agree to see how this evening ends then – and I will have your hands and comb another night if not this?”

Caradhil smiles his agreement, and they turn to join the dancing, yet even in this, he finds his eye is drawn back to the prince more than perhaps is wise. How not when his is the only blond hair in this sea of red, russet, auburn – the only gold in this tapestry of flame?

Another thinks so also. By chance, Caradhil is one of the few close enough to hear the King’s words to his son as he, and the older princes, are leaving the Hall, though the merry-making will continue for many hours yet,

“Legolas, you would do better to remember your rank. You are, seldom though you act it, a prince, and few here can tell you when you are unseemly. None wishes to see your woeful lack of skill compared to others. Control yourself. This display is not how I would have my son behave – look to your brothers’ example.” And Thranduil sweeps away, leaving behind, Caradhil can see, an elf who will not let his face change, but who retreats to the edge of the Hall, and stands motionless, watching.

When the revelry ends, Caradhil looks to see with whom he will comb, and indeed Maegsigil is there, ready to catch his eye and lead him to his group’s usual place – before they go, Caradhil looks round, but that golden head has gone. He wonders for a moment, but – who knows the ways of princes – and follows Maegsigil.

 

Several days pass in relaxation, in the making of reports, in combing, in wine, in song. Caradhil does not see the prince again, but he becomes fond of Maegsigil – it is hard not to be fond of one so eager to please, and to be welcomed by his group. 

But every furlough ends, and he is told his new assignment. A long patrol. And – he is to be in command. His first command. He cannot help but be excited, and proud – for a long moment he wishes his parents had not been among the many who died at Dagorlad, that he could share with them this day. But – he is an elf. They are safe with Mandos, they will come again when the Valar will it. He is not short of combmates in the meantime.

The day dawns, and he goes to the muster point to see who he has in his patrol. Maegsigil – he is surprised, but pleased – it is unusual for those who are already as close as they to be assigned together, but someone must have decided they would work together well – and indeed, the other elf has made it clear there is not a jealous streak in him, he is happy to comb with many, he has no desire to vow. There is a good mix in the group, and he thinks perhaps all are here, when the last arrives. 

“Caradhil, it seems I must beg your forgiveness once again. I – I am not often so late, I was not told I was assigned until last night.” That flush is back, as Legolas continues, “I am sorry. Again,” then he smiles, “but I can assure you, I am more competent than when last you saw me with a bow.”

Caradhil cannot help but smile,  
“I would hope so, my prince – when last I saw you with a bow in your hand, you were a very, very green trainee.” But, he thinks, why did no-one warn me I am to be responsible for you? Again?

 

But as the weeks pass, Caradhil finds he is not responsible for this elf, any more than for the others. Legolas has indeed become a most competent archer – one would almost say excellent – but that elves do not like such hyperbole. His knife work is good, his other skills perfectly fine, and, most importantly, he has no airs, no desire to be treated as anything other than one of them. He fits well into the group.

And, at last, Caradhil is able to comb that fine blond hair. Although – he discovers it matters less to him that he is combing Legolas than that he is not combing Maegsigil. Which is a surprise. He had not realised how fond he had become of the other. Still, they are a group – all must comb and learn all, and in truth it is most unlike Caradhil to regret that for even an instant.

 

The patrol is going well. Caradhil finds he enjoys being in command – and he dares to hope he is good at it. Although – he fears he is not as decisive as perhaps a leader should be. In truth, he is not that keen on the actual work, he would rather not have to spend his evening time planning the next day, he does not like to look up from combing one who needs persuading or coaxing or reassuring to see Maegsigil with another’s hands in his hair. Caradhil is surprised to learn this about himself. He had not thought he had this in him, to be – what is the word he has heard used of Men and Naugrim – possessive. To be less than keen on work – of that he knew himself capable. He is not completely unaware of his failings – he always suspected he preferred wine, song, and combing to real success and leadership. Still, it is only one patrol – who knows what may come next?

But – it would be nice if it were with Maegsigil.

It occurs to Caradhil that if he were to encourage another to perform some of the leader’s duties, he would have more time in the evenings to do as he would choose. He wonders who to ask – clearly not the one with whom he wishes to spend his regained time – and then it strikes him. There is one who must become capable of leadership – and who has already shown himself to be so in a tight place. And so, he ensures that he has chance to speak with him that evening, his comb running through that blond hair, his hand ready to stroke the ear-tips when the inevitable protest and sweet flush comes,

“Legolas, my prince, I would have you take some of the patrol decisions for me. I would have you lead some of the smaller sorties – plan them even. What say you?” he knows, he can feel the tension, this is not something expected.

“I – Caradhil – I would rather not. I – I am no leader.”

“My prince, one day you may have no choice. It is not something of which any of us like to think, but what happened once can happen again. My parents died at Dagorlad. Your grandfather, his brothers, your father’s brothers, your eldest brother, - all dead that same day.” He pauses, wondering if that is grief he can feel through his hands, “my prince, I speak not to hurt you – but it is true. Should something happen to your Ada – should he go to join your mother in the West-“

He is cut off,  
“Ada will never go West. He has said this often, he will not go where all are Noldor. He will never see her again.” And for an instant, Caradhil hears again the elfling, hears the unspoken ‘and it is all my fault’, but he swallows and continues, “I have two brothers remaining. The elder has children older than I – though they are rarely seen at the Halls, living with his wife as they do.” And there, thinks Caradhil, there lies a whole other sorry story, “I will never be my Ada, I cannot. I am no leader.”

“But for all our sakes, you must learn. Legolas, I know you led your group in that spider-nest clearance – I know you can do this. Show me I am right. Show them all.” Caradhil knows how to be persuasive, and he can keep this up for a long while. He lowers his voice, this is just between them, and continuing to comb, alternating hands so as to stroke both ears in turn, falls into a gentle chant, “show everyone, my prince, be the leader I know you can be, show us, show them, I need you, we need you, help us my beautiful one, my prince, my Sindar, show us all, show me, show everyone, lead us, earn your braids, be what you were born to be, we need you,” and playing on his listener’s weak points, “show them you are one to desire, prove your worth, show your quality, be a leader, be the fighting prince I know you are, have them all wish to comb with you, be more than your brothers, lead us my prince, show them, show him, show your Ada, my prince, oh my prince, my archer, lead us.” Caradhil can keep this going for hours – but he does not think, from the feel of the head in his hands, that he will need to. And, he reminds himself, every word of it is true. He would not lie, he would not lie to any of his group, he certainly would not lie to this elf.

By morning, he has the agreement he hoped for. He has a second-in-command – one who all the others will follow, one who will cause no division, for all know that princes must learn to lead.

 

But as the seasons pass, he finds that this prince – this prince is indeed a good archer, a good fighter, a good second-in-command. Too good. He does not wish to lead. However much Caradhil pushes, he cannot make him, that spark is not there. Always, he needs someone to say – do this, do that, take that one down. Oh, once pointed in the right direction, he is good, he has that accuracy of aim, that speed with knife and bow, that flair for the extreme stunt that marks a born warrior – but, no more. He does not have the – Caradhil searches in his mind for the words – the aura of command, he cannot persuade others to do his will, he cannot inspire by words or example. He may be Thranduilion, but he is no Thranduil. For a moment Caradhil wonders what will become of his homeland, which of these princes could ever rule? Not that it matters – their great King has no plans to leave them. He would never leave them with none to care for them but this young elf with no experience.

What Legolas does have, and Caradhil is happy to admit this, is love. They are all, himself included, fond of this prince, fonder than of any other of their Sindar royalty. All of them would wish to protect him, help him (not that he needs it), defend him. And Caradhil is not sure whether this is just that pale hair, those blue eyes – so like the eyes and hair of any newborn Silvan elfling – or whether it is that he was not the only one to feel guilt, feel that he failed that long-forgotten elfling who was so lonely. 

Well, he is not lonely now. On this patrol, he has found his place. He has become a confident, competent warrior, a good hunter – and a true Silvan in his love of combing, song and wine among the trees, under the stars. 

And if Caradhil has not managed to win himself as many free evenings as he would have hoped – no matter. Maegsigil bears no grudge, and is always there when he looks for him. Time is not really something any elf should fret over. There will be plenty of time when they are on furlough.

Caradhil is an elf. He is good at waiting.


	3. Chapter 3

“......Thaun enedh-riw!..........” but Caradhil is cut off. He had forgot – he is not the leader of this group. It is not for him to choose the song.

“Not that one. It is not the season for it – and we are not in the Forest now.” Besides, Thonion is slightly sensitive – the words in the song are too close to his name, and he does not appreciate it, even though he knows it is not unkindly meant. 

Caradhil is finding the prohibition difficult. It is his song. It has always been so. 

“I am sorry,” he says, and means it, “but tell me, leader, it is long in the count of Men since I came to Dale, what manner of place is it now?”

Thonion smiles, always ready to be won round by a request for help, an acknowledgement of his place – such an easy thing and yet so many elves do not bother, Caradhil cannot think why not,

“Now – well, compared to when you were last there, it is now much grown. It is what Men call a ‘bustling market town’, all the farms from the land around bring their produce there, and of course it is the centre for trade with the Naugrim of Erebor. For they let none but a few enter their mountain.” Both elves shiver at the thought, then Thonion continues, “there is much to see in Dale. I think you will find it interesting.”

Caradhil thinks of a question,

“Do they still have a king? I remember they did before. It was just Esgaroth that did not – but they still have their strange system, so – which is more usual for Men?”

Thonion sighs, “I might have known you would ask that. Indeed I was told true, you are a most curious elf. Yes, they have a king. No, I do not know which is more usual. And the Naugrim have a king too. As is usual for them.”

“Surely all elves are curious?” Caradhil laughs, “no, I know what you mean. I have not asked you about the trees, the plants, the sights, the wine. It is how I am, that is all. I mean nothing by it.” And indeed, he does not.

 

Dale is – bustling. So much to see. They are simply supposed to be gathering information, feeling the mood of the town, hearing any rumours – particularly about the Naugrim, their King is not sanguine at having such neighbours – perhaps taking note of anything for sale in the marketplace that might be of interest.

They are not, Caradhil knows, supposed to be stopping entranced at one of the stalls selling jewellery, dwarf-made he supposes, marvelling at the beauty of it. These things – these are beyond the skill of anything Caradhil has seen made by Men, or by elves since – since the Queen left. He remembers when he was a child, things were made by her people, her jewellers – even by her hands, for she was not queen then, she had time to craft such beauty. 

He wonders what became of those works. Did she take them with her? Do her sons keep them to remember her by? Are they locked away somewhere only the King may see them – are they locked away somewhere the King can be sure he will not see them, is the pain of memory too much?

Caradhil does not know – it is not his place to know. He knows little of love, he does not know how it would be to love and lose the One you wait for so long.

He knows what it is to grieve for a parent though. And – however little he likes the elder princes, he would pity them for that – to be left must be worse than to lose parents to death. He would pity them, had he not heard that slap, heard his prince rejected. But that was long ago – the brothers may now be reconciled. He does not know – it is not his place to know. His prince – is no longer in his group, no longer in his care. His prince made it very clear he did not need his care.

And he brings himself back to now, to this market, to these things which, he remembers, he is no more supposed to be looking at than the others of his group are. They are certainly not supposed to be staring, fingering, longing for such things. And as for speaking to the stall-holder, asking the price, wishing that elves had gold to buy such unnecessary luxuries, such trinkets – no, that is not what they are supposed to be doing. But,

“I have no gold, yet – it is so perfect,” Caradhil sighs. From under his lashes, he looks at the man, and hopes.

“Well, master elf, it seems to me that you carry that bow as though you know how to use it.” Caradhil follows the man’s gaze to his weapon, then meets his eye questioningly, hopefully, shyly. “If you were to bring me say, one of the deer that live on the mountain – that would see my family well-fed for a week, and dried meat for winter, then – I think you would have earned this. What say you?”

Caradhil knows what he should say. He knows also what he will say. He can imagine the smile too easily when he presents his gift.

“I can hardly thank you enough. I – would hope to return tomorrow, but it may be the following day, will you be here?” he remembers to sound hesitant, to play the part of a shy woodland elf.

“I am here every day, master elf. And to show willing, I will put this aside for you.”

 

And so Caradhil finds himself not only cutting short his combing that night, and going alone across the hillside, where he suspects he should not be, but also hastening into the town next morning. Thonion knows well what he is up to, but is choosing not to see – although Caradhil is aware that should something go wrong his leader is unlikely to rescue him.

Nothing has gone wrong. The stallholder is there, the deer is accepted delightedly – indeed it is clearly bigger than he had hoped for, and he insists on adding a second, less valuable item to the first. Caradhil has turned away and is almost out of earshot, indeed were he not an elf he would be out of earshot, when he hears the man on the next stall, a cloth-merchant, say,

“I hope you are going to get that out of sight quickly, brother. Here, take this sack and get it home. You know the king has said that the dwarves have the right of it, and the deer on their mountain are for them to shoot.”

“I did nothing. I did not shoot it.” Caradhil can imagine the sly smile, “I asked the elf for a deer. I assumed he would bring one from his wood. Not my fault if he went poaching.” And as the other makes a disapproving noise, “besides, punishment for poaching’s not a hand, s’only a slit ear. What difference does that make to an elf – their ears are pointy anyway?”

And the laughter that follows leaves Caradhil feeling sick. What are these Men, these Naugrim that they could do such a thing? A slit ear. He has seen men with such marks in the town, he had assumed it was a natural defect, perhaps a wound. Deliberately done. He has risked this. He wants to cover his ears in protection, but does not – that would be to look guilty. But – his ears. 

Perhaps, he thinks, perhaps Maegsigil was not so far wrong after all. Perhaps Naugrim are indeed without honour, without virtue. To do such a thing – to cause such a punishment – how could any race act so? For the Men to accept it – is distressing, yet – they are dependent for all their wealth, their livelihoods – perhaps they have no choice. For the Naugrim to do so – when they are so rich, so prosperous – have they no charity, no care, no thought for others? Do they have no understanding of others?

It seems ironic to him at this moment, that he has argued they do for so long. He has been ready to believe that they have worth – they were created by Aule, allowed to live by Iluvatar – they must have worth. So he has said, so he has believed. And, in the end, this was the reason that he and Maegsigil no longer comb together – the other could not listen to his arguments, would not hear his views, could not even agree to differ on this. 

Caradhil had assumed it was the grief for his home, his family, he had forgiven it, and moved on, as Caradhil does – there are many elves to comb. Yet now, now he wonders about what else he has been wrong, which of his assumptions about Men, or even about Noldor were also too kind. Perhaps his King is right – wood-elves should stay in their wood.

None would threaten his ears there.

He shivers and quickens his pace.

 

When he reaches his group, he finds they are still readying themselves for the day. Thonion comes to him,

“Are you done? We should return to the town once more before we continue our planned road –“ Caradhil cuts him off.

“I need to speak to the group. Please. It is urgent.”

Thonion is puzzled, but calls them together. Caradhil is, for an instant, hesitant, but,

“My group, I have done something foolish. I – I think you may know already, I shot a deer last night. I took it into the town to trade this morning. I – I have since learned the Naugrim claim all that lives on this mountain. They – they inflict a punishment on any that take what they say is theirs.” He swallows, even saying this is hard, he feels sick, he feels a fear such as he has never felt, his stomach is cramped with it, “my group, do not risk this, I have heard they – they used to take a hand,” and they all gasp in horror, “but now – now they slit the ear.” 

There is a silence. One elf hastily goes away from the group and is noisily sick. Caradhil finds this helps him – and from the look of others it is the same for them – this one is being sick for all of them. He looks around – the same shock is on all their faces, even the experienced Thonion. He swallows, 

“Please, do not ask me to go back to that town. I do not think I can.”

Thonion shakes his head,

“No, of course not. None of us will. We return to Esgaroth today. Word of this must go to our King. Whatever the crime, this cannot apply to an elf. A hand would be kinder.” Thonion thinks a minute, “I wonder if this is something we should think more of – before we trade with other races – we should have some kind of code on these matters.”

Caradhil agrees. Oh how he agrees.

 

In the hurry to strike camp, no-one asks Caradhil what he was trading for – an omission which relieves him. It is several days before anyone even thinks of it, and by then, he has decided upon his story – one which will leave him looking a fool, but that he can live with. Besides, it is often no bad thing to have people underestimate you.

When asked, he shows the second item, the afterthought, the dagger with a small ruby inset,

“I was a fool,” he says, “I just – wanted it.”

As for the other – he knows it may be many years before he returns to the Forest, and even then, it may be more years before he sees the one he was thinking of when he bought it. But – he will keep it safe. 

He is an elf. He is good at waiting.


	4. Chapter 4

At last. After all these years. At last Caradhil is back in his Forest, on furlough, and as chance would have it, almost the first elf he sees is Brethylf. It has been long – he wonders how the other’s feelings will have changed at first, but as they stand, speaking only with their eyes, stroking ear-tips, it seems that neither of them has changed much at all.

“I missed you,” Brethylf says at last, “I even missed your song. I thought of you much.”

“And I of you,” Caradhil answers, wondering for an instant if he should mention all the others he has combed with, even though he gave none what he withheld from Brethylf.

“I – I owe you an apology.” Brethylf says surprisingly, “I know you are not one to be combmates. I should never have tried to ask that of you.”

“It matters not,” Caradhil says, and he is about to offer his comb for the evening when Brethylf makes a gesture with his hand and says,

“Did you ever meet Tawarwen?” and Caradhil sees the elf who is waiting patiently for her husband, and he sees the elfling she holds. He looks again, and wonders how he could have missed the change in Brethylf's braids.

“No,” he smiles, for this is what he always thought Brethylf deserved, needed, “and this is?”

And for the rest of the afternoon, he hears nothing but the joys of fatherhood, the delights of showing an elfling trees, and singing with an elfling, and holding an elfling, and combing an elfling, and on and on. But, he is delighted.

He wonders, though, where the only elfling he has ever cared for is now.

 

At the feast that evening – apparently the King has restored the custom of autumn feasts, much to everyone’s delight – he finds out. There on the high table, sits the King, and all three princes – two with their wives. Caradhil takes advantage of a break in the conversation to ask his neighbour, (not Brethylf, feasts are, it seems, not good for little elflings),

“Our King – his sons – all is well in the palace?”

“As well as it has been for many years,” he is told, “our King is our King. The two princes are here for this feast – they will return to their home in the north of the wood tomorrow.”

“And the youngest prince?”

“He – he is usually around. I think he has been training with the guard recently.” There is a pause, then, “although, I did hear our King has been trying to improve his sword-skills. With little success.”

“Ah.” That fits. Caradhil looks again at his prince, and sees nothing in that expression. Cold. Serene. Closed.

Later there is dancing. None of the royal family dance. They sit and watch, the two elder princes and their wives keeping up a conversation, the King lost in thought. As for the younger – his eyes follow the dancing, but he does not move, and his face gives nothing away.

Caradhil remembers a golden head moving among all the autumn colours of Silvan hair, remembers a joyous skill, a delight in movement, in losing all care. He sees his prince, still as all the other Sindar, and wonders if he is the only one to think it sad.

 

 

It is several days before he has chance to speak to Legolas. As ever, they meet near the archery range – both are going to practice.

“My prince,” Caradhil greets him, “is all well with you? It seems long since I saw you.”

“Caradhil. It is long. I – I practice still. Every day you said – and I do.”

They stand for a moment, Caradhil longs to reach out and greet him by ear-touching, but remembers that this prince is not in his group any more – it would not be right. Instead he smiles,

“You remember that day? You were so confident, so right with the bow. I have not known many elflings, but you – I cannot believe they all learn so fast.” And the answering smile, the light, is worth any amount of waiting. He reaches into his pocket and brings out the item for which he so nearly lost so much, “I saw this, in Dale. It – it seemed something you might like.” He takes Legolas’ hand and folds it round the comb. “Use it later. It – it is just a gift. I missed you.”

But the light, the smile is gone. Replaced by – fear?

“Caradhil, I – I cannot take this – I have nothing for you – I – “

“I am not asking anything. My prince, I wanted to surprise you.” Caradhil is hurt, he does not understand. 

“No. No, I – I – indeed I missed you – but – I – we – “ 

Suddenly Caradhil understands,

“It is not a question. It is not asking anything from you or of you. If you have a comb already – keep this for when it breaks.” He looks at the prince, who is flushing, head down, “when last I knew you, you had but a plain comb, wooden, with no markings. I – I thought it was time you had a new one. And see – this one has green leaves on, it is silver, yet so thin, so fine. I – I know who you are. I would not ask to comb with you, unless we are assigned to a group.” Something occurs to him, “is it – is it that you have a combmate – are you vowed?” surely rumour would have told him?

“No. No, it is not that. It – it is beautiful. I – I thank you.” Audibly, he swallows and looks up, “I am not used to gifts. I have nothing like this – you are right, I have still only the plain comb. Thank you, Caradhil. I – I shall hope to be in your group that I may share it with you.” And the comb is placed safely in a pocket as they continue to their practice.

It is only later that it occurs to Caradhil that most elves receive their combs from parents or lovers. And he is neither. 

He wonders how he has carried this gift for so long without questioning himself. 

 

 

The days of Caradhil’s furlough pass. He enjoys being home in his Forest, there is wine, song, starlight under the trees. There is dancing. There is combing – with many, many elves. Caradhil is rarely without a partner, rarely reduced to merely joining a group and hoping one will exchange combs for a time. He is, it seems, much desired – the story of the deer, the risk to his ears appears to have been told surreptitiously, and he has become something of a hero. Rather to his surprise – he had thought he was a fool to have been so deceived, so tricked, and for something of so little worth – for the dagger is still the only known purchase, and that, while good in itself, has no tale attached to it.

What the days and evenings of his furlough contain little of – is time with his prince. Caradhil would be more hurt by this if he did not know that the prince is still training as part of the guard, and so must spend a lot of time there.

It is a disappointment, but – he is an elf. He can wait.

 

Caradhil is lounging by the archery range, watching the practice, when the message comes. The King requires his presence. Immediately. 

He does not dare stop to question the messenger. He goes. He hurries. He feels a cold fear – what has he done? The messenger did not look as though it was good news.

Arriving at the throne room, he waits until he is bid enter, and does so, dropping to one knee before his King. There is a languid hand gesture, and he rises, relieved that this is not so bad as he had feared.

“My King,” he says, “I am yours to command.”

“Yes,” the King agrees, lazily, “you are.” He pauses, examining his rings as he sits on his throne, then an unexpected note, almost apology comes into his voice as he continues, “Caradhil, you are a talented archer, an observant elf. You did well in your role when we tried you as group captain.”

Caradhil bows his head and feels his ear-tips flush in pleasure – it is unusual to hear such praise from his King.

“However. Caradhil, you showed lamentable lack of judgement in this – trade. This poaching.” His King pauses, and there is a new heat in his voice when he continues, “Had you been taken, at such a distance there is nothing I could have done to protect you. You fool. You would have lost your ears. You know, I could not spend the lives of my people for one who was named lawbreaker. You know this. And the rest of your long life you would have suffered.” He gestures, “for what? Let me see this – this dagger.”

Caradhil hands it over in silence, and the King examines the weapon. He nods, tosses it back, and, “Yet even in this, I find you not wholly lacking in sense. This is a good weapon, well-made. Indeed, you conducted yourself well – you left the town with no pursuit, you warned your group, we have now sent to all those we trade with, messages commanding that no elf shall be punished for lawbreaking, beyond imprisonment, without my agreement. This is something we must think on, and gain a meeting of minds from all three races.” 

Caradhil is relieved, but the King continues,

“I sent for you to tell you this, that you should know why you are not to be appointed captain of a patrol this time. I know you had but once been group leader, and you would hope to continue – I cannot reward such idiocy so. You will serve as second.” He waits for Caradhil’s assent, “but in recognition of your many qualities, second to one who is untried, foolish and in need of guidance.” Caradhil wonders why his King is making leader one who he is clearly not impressed by – the answer comes – “I find it is time to see just what sort of trouble my youngest son can find in the Forest.”

Caradhil has to restrain a smile – that is clearly not the correct response, yet – this is what he has hoped for in his heart. To see his prince become a leader, and – to comb with him, to be at his side. But the King has not finished speaking, “Caradhil, do not let my son avoid his responsibilities. He has a woeful habit of ducking all command, of wishing to follow not lead. I would have you there as a check to any wild impulse, yet – he must gain in confidence, in decision, in leadership.” For an instant the father looks through the eyes of the King, and it is to the father that Caradhil, foolishly, speaks,

“My lord, I think the prince would gain much of all those from your praise. I – when he speaks of you, he loves you and much desires your favour – “ but he has gone too far. From lounging to imperious, Thranduil moves faster than even elf-eyes can follow, and his sword-point is at Caradhil’s throat.

“You dare to speak to me of my son.” The sword presses in, forcing Caradhil back and down to his knees, “Do not presume to tell me how to deal with my own, hunter.” Caradhil kneels, silent and afraid, for a long moment.

The sword moves a little backwards, and he finds his voice,

“My King, I am sorry, I meant no disrespect.” And as the sword does not move and those eyes continue to bite, “I – it will not happen again. I am your elf. I am yours to command. Deal with me as you will.” 

“Do not forget.” The sword under his chin forces Caradhil to his feet, then drops away, “You have my leave to go.” He turns, but as he starts to move away, the point is back, at the nape of his neck this time, “And Caradhil, if I thought my son needed an ornate comb, he would have one. I will have no Silvan gifting my son in such a way.”

Caradhil bows his head, and leaves. 

 

Thranduil watches him walk away, notes the set of his shoulders, the hurt pride, the pain. A rebuke strongly felt. 

A rebuke needed then, he thinks, for indeed, Caradhil, I will have no Silvan courting my son. And – of all Silvans, not you. Not one who has so many who wish to be combed by him. Not one so sure, one so confident. My son needs to learn to rule, to command himself. 

I will use you, how can I not when you are so dependable? You – you will ever be at his side, you will ensure his first command is a success, I trust you for that. You will, I doubt not, use your comb to ensure all the elves I send with you come back sure of his worth. 

He smiles, he has heard the rumours of Caradhil’s skill, of his ability to please with hand and comb, of his voice, of his charm. Harnessed to serve the prince, the king – that is very useful. But he does not like the thought of such prowess being used on his son.

I have watched you for long now, I know you thought of my son as an elfling. But, now – now he is no child. Comb him, teach him your skills, but do not seek more than the combing in a group that any can give. 

For all your prowess, your skills, your mind, and I respect them all, you are Silvan. My son, my son is Sindar. He must marry as have my other sons. He needs an heir. An heir who could one day rule – an heir with no Silvan blood.

Thranduil thinks of a way to keep his son safe, to distract this charming elf; Caradhil, you need elves to look up to you, you need to be needed. And so – there are some in this group that I send with you and my son who will give you that. One who I think would give you anything you ask.

Caradhil, teach my son that which I would have him learn.

And no more.

You are Silvan. You will do as I command.

He smiles, and thinks, this elf will bear watching. He may be very useful yet.

 

 

Caradhil goes to his chamber, he does not meet the eyes of any. In silence, he throws himself upon his bed and lies, staring at the ceiling, trying to calm his mind. The rebuke for the deer, the trade – he accepts, he has no defence – he was stupid. He has said much worse to himself. The demotion – means little. The chance to be with his prince meant much.

The anger – he overstepped the line. He knows this. Yet – something in him wonders, ‘King, if you will let none speak this truth, how can you hope for a solution? You have never punished us for unpleasant truths about spiders, about other dangers, have asked us to speak to you of our worries – and we do. Your people love you. Yet – you will not let us help you.’ He sighs, knowing that with these thoughts, he is avoiding the true hurt, the blow to his pride, to his soul at being forced to kneel in such a way, by such a one.

For such a cause. He did not deserve it.

And, deep inside, a part of him questions the right of the King to do this.

Yet even as he does, he knows that no other elf in this Forest would understand his question. The King has all rights. Over all elves. That is what King means. 

And even Caradhil does not know what he would have different.

 

The hours pass, the scalding shame and anger begin to cool, and leave behind a sick discontent, which is only made worse when he suddenly remembers again the final words of the King. 

“Caradhil, if I thought my son needed an ornate comb, he would have one. I will have no Silvan gifting my son in such a way.”

And Caradhil admits to himself, that only one knew what he had done, only one could have told the King of this gift. 

Betrayal is not a nice experience. For whatever the cause, whether by mistake, through questioning, through foolishness, his prince has betrayed him. And the coming patrol will be harder than any other.

 

Time passes. Caradhil does not move. 

Even without combing, he has fallen into reverie, woken, remembered, lain unable to face any, and drifted again.

 

There comes a tap on the door. Caradhil cannot think of any whom he would care to see, so does not answer, but he hears the door open. He does not look. Perhaps they will go away; whoever it is, he has nothing to say to them. The door shuts again, but Caradhil can hear the intruder breathing. He does not move. 

“Caradhil, I – I am sorry.” Of all voices, this is one he did not expect. “I – I seem to bring you nothing but trouble. I – please, Caradhil Finbonaurion – I am sorry. Please forgive me. I – I do not know what you think, but – I did not mean this.” What, Caradhil thinks, did you not mean, my prince? Did you not mean me to care for you, to think of you? Did you not mean for me to gift you? Then why so pleased when I did? For, despite all your blushing, you were pleased. Or, did you not mean for me to be a fool, to risk my ears for a trinket to please you? Did you not mean for me to defend you to your father? Then you do not know me at all. 

“I – I do not wish to be a leader, you know this. I – I am sorry. I – I will much need your help, as I ever have it seems. – Yet – I – I did not know you would mind so. I am sorry.”

The words make no sense for a moment, then Caradhil understands, and it is bitter.

“You – you think I am like this because you are to be my captain?” his voice sounds his disbelief, “My prince, I told you I would serve you and I stand by my word. When my lord King told me, I was overjoyed.”

He does not look, but he can picture the face, the confusion, 

“Then – then, Caradhil, what have I done? I – I would know my offence. Whatever it is, I crave your pardon, but – I do not know what I have done.”

Caradhil swings himself upright, sits facing away from the prince, he does not want to see that face, to see those eyes.

“You must know. Do not lie to me,” he pauses, “none but you and I knew I gave you that comb. Why? That is all I would have from you – a reason. Why? I told you it was but a gift. I asked nothing from you, I have never asked anything. So, why? Why, my prince? You are no fool, you must have known my lord King would not be pleased. Did you think you needed his protection from me?” for that is the thought that has been burning into Caradhil, that his prince feared him, feared what he might ask – what he would never ask.

There is a shocked gasp, and then Legolas has thrown himself on his knees before Caradhil, who does not know what to make of this.

“Caradhil, I swear to you, I did not say anything to Ada. I – I am so sorry. I – I am a fool, but – I would never think that of you, I – oh Valar, I am sorry.” He looks up at Caradhil, and Caradhil looks at those eyes, so wide, so entreating, and feels himself falling, feels his anger leaving, but, 

“What did you do? I – I will forgive you, my prince, but – tell me.”

“I – it is a comb, Caradhil, it is hardly something I can keep from anyone’s eyes. I – used it. It – it is perfect. I – I have never thanked you enough. But,” he swallows, “but, I suppose elves talk.” Caradhil almost laughs, yes, indeed, elves do talk. “Not long ago my brother – my brother came to me. He – he said he would see my comb. I – oh Caradhil, you know how it has been, I know you do, though by your kindness you have never spoken – I thought he meant to comb me – I – I hoped so – “ he breaks off to swallow again, and Caradhil finds his anger returning but with a different focus, “he asked where I had got such a thing, he – he implied – I – I do not know quite what he implied – but – that I had not come by it well. I was angry. I – I told him you had given it me. He laughed, and said I had no need of him then, and left.” 

Caradhil looks at him, and sees again that elfling, hears again that slap, that sobbing, and understands all too well how easily this prince could be so trusting. He makes up his mind, 

“Forgive you – there is nothing to forgive. My prince,” and now he does reach to touch the other’s ears, “show me I am forgiven for doubting you?” 

Hesitantly, Legolas reaches up and touches Caradhil’s ears also. They stay thus for a long moment, then Caradhil makes himself speak lightly,

“Come, I had best eat, and then – should the leader not call a group comb and discussion this night – it cannot be many days before we begin patrol?”

 

 

That sets the pattern for the whole time. Always, it is Caradhil who sees what must be done, who suggests it, who must push for the commands to be given. Oh, when there is action, a spider nest to clear, an orc band to kill, hunting to be done – Legolas is beyond reproach. He is still, Caradhil is relieved to find, a well-trained fighter, a natural with his bow, good with his knives – and he still has that flair that helps gain respect from the others. But the rest of the time – he is so quiet, so diffident. It is hard to ensure that it is him who appears to be the leader – Caradhil suspects that the others are playing along with the fiction, aware of the truth but no more wanting to see it than he wishes them to.

How, he thinks, oh King, how am I supposed to remake this prince in your image? It cannot be done. There is only one Thranduil. Between them your three sons have your fighting skills, your people’s love, your cunning, your learning, your cold decision making – but not one has all these. And not one has your ability to lead. Oh King, we know you must long to go West, to find your wife again – but we would be nothing without you. Do not leave us. I cannot make this prince what you would have him be.

It is not an easy patrol. Night after night, Caradhil is weary. He longs for the hours of combing, and resents even more than before the time he must spend combing those who need reassurance, persuading or coaxing – for he quickly finds that if any of that needs doing, it is best if he does it. Legolas has not his skill – indeed, he is coming to realise that not many do. 

For a long while, he does not notice how often it is Aglarcu who seems to need his hands. The other elf is – not younger than him – who can tell with elves – but – less confident. He seems always to need praise, help, something. Caradhil is always there to give it – and after some months, he admits to himself that the look in the other’s eyes is balm to his heart, still aching as it does from his King’s anger, his humiliation, and what he cannot but feel as his prince’s betrayal, however his reason denies this.

 

 

Aglarcu watches Caradhil. He has watched him for a long time, truth be known, at the archery range, at feasts – dancing, laughing, singing. He spent much time thinking of Caradhil when he was away – and although the story of the deer confirms his admiration of the other’s bravery, and coolness under pressure, the thought of those ears so treated has still the power to make him cold inside. He is no fool – he knows Caradhil has never made a vow, not even the short patrol or season vows so many make. He is coming to the conclusion that Caradhil has never even had a full nights combing with only one – let alone considered being faithful for longer.

But – he notices that Caradhil is happy to return to him every night. He notices too that Caradhil seems always to be giving comfort, pleasure – he rarely seems able to relax and let another please him. Aglarcu files this thought away – there may be a chance for him to use it.

 

It is mid-winter. At the Halls all will be feasting, dancing for the return of the sun, singing in praise of the brightness of stars and snow. 

In the Forest, even elves begin to notice it is cold – it does not bother them as it would mortals, but – they notice it. The stars are indeed lovely, as is the snow – but they would seem lovelier were there more to eat – or more wine. All the patrol is tired, some are cross, this is the time of year when all would rather be at home, and this is not the first winter away – yet nor is it their last. 

A day comes when it seems all goes ill. The deer escapes, the snow has begun to melt, and a cold penetrating rain to fall, one elf falls badly and hurts his arm, several are looking pinched with cold in a way that in mortals would mean flu – and is little more enjoyable for elves, and – the fire will not properly light. At this combing time all are tired, all are cold, all are wet, all are – fed up – all want comfort. Aglarcu sees that even now, Caradhil is the one giving comfort, the one caring for others, the one combing, stroking, reassuring. 

He notices that their leader – is not so assiduous in his care. That, when all others who needed it are either in reverie or combing friends, their leader has gone to Caradhil, and is finding his own reassurance, his blond hair expertly combed until he too slips into reverie this night.

Aglarcu has waited until now, now he detaches himself from the trio he is with, and makes his way to where Caradhil is standing to stretch. 

“Let me comb you,” he says, “I – I would like to ease your heart as you ease mine so often.” And finds he is right – this night Caradhil is tired too, this night Caradhil is indeed ready to settle against him and let him run his hands and comb through that hair. Hair which should be bright, but tonight even this flame is doused by rain. Tonight Caradhil will let him stroke those ears, tonight he will lean back and listen to words of affection, words of comfort – words Aglarcu has had ready these many years, it seems.

“Caradhil, my Caradhil, my leader, leader of my heart, always the last to take comfort, always the first into danger, the first to look out for us all, rest now, rest now, all of us are safe by your care, put it away from you.” Aglarcu is running his hands through that hair, watching it cascade over his fingers, feeling the silken softness. He combs, carefully, front to back, keeping the pressure just right, hard enough to feel good, gentle enough not to hurt. Untangling with his fingers, carefully, carefully, there must be no jarring pull, just that stroking sensation that elves need. “Enjoy this, enjoy my hands, enjoy my comb, reverie here with me if you will, reverie in my arms, Caradhil, all is well, you do well, all praise you, all know your worth.” He lets one hand, then the other, reach down to those ear-tips, those beautiful, precious ears, pushes his thoughts away from the horror of mutilation, strokes gently, oh so gently, in time with his words, with the movement of his comb.

The other shifts for a moment and looks up at him, only half-focusing, “you are good at this, Aglarcu, very good,” he says, slightly slurring his words.

Aglarcu smiles, and leans down to his ear, “I should be,” he answers, “I learnt from the master.” But Caradhil is completely relaxed, as close to sleep as any elf comes. He stays all night – and Aglarcu is content.

In the morning, Caradhil smiles at him – a soft, secret smile, which Aglarcu has not seen him use before – though he is not such an innocent as to suppose that means it has not been used on others. He cannot help but smile back, although he tries to confine it to his eyes, not light up his whole being as his feelings light up his soul. He fears he has not managed it, from the way Caradhil reaches and, running a finger lightly across his burning ear, says,

“Comb with me tonight, when all my needful combing is done, mellon-nin,” not even bothering to pretend it is a question – but, Aglarcu thinks, what need to play games? This is how it is for him, and he cannot imagine it changing.

 

A pattern is set for the rest of the patrol time. Caradhil remains leader in all but name, he remains the one to do the most comforting at combing time, the most of the work at all times – but every night he comes to Aglarcu, or raises an eyebrow to summon him, and gives or takes comfort according to their needs.

Well, Aglarcu admits to himself, more according to Caradhil’s need. After all, for him there is no comfort greater than pleasing the other so, what matters it? He does not deceive himself, he knows that this means less to Caradhil than to him, he does not ask for vows, for anything beyond the time given.

He is an elf. He is good at waiting.

Neither elf notices the prince watching them.


	5. Chapter 5

Orcs. Orcs have attacked Dale, that pretty town, so full of life. For all that Caradhil can still feel the fear he felt that day, still wants to touch his ears in reassurance when the name is mentioned, he grieves for those people. They did not deserve orcs, they were not wilfully cruel – no other race has ears like to elves’, they knew not what they threatened. Besides, it was not the Men, it was the Naugrim, a shameful part of him thinks, and he corrects even his thoughts – it was not the Naugrim alone. The Men would have handed him over to them, it was a Man who tricked him. No race can be fully trusted, there is safety only among their own, in this Forest, as the King says. And, by the grace of the Valar, it was only a threat, it never happened, and, by the power of their King, it will never happen to any Mirkwood elf.

But – orcs. From the Dark Land, it is said. Raiding into Dale and Erebor. And Erebor must now be vulnerable, for so many of their people left when their king went back to the Grey Mountains. Caradhil has no love for Naugrim, but – they do not deserve orcs. He still has his dagger, and it is beautiful work. He knows the maker will be long dead by now, but – he or his kin – such craft should not be dragged into evil.

More than this, he fears for Esgaroth. That town where he has spent so much time over the years. That brave town that thinks to live without a king – the idea still intrigues him, and he has come to think that there may be some small advantages to it. For Men. Men whose lives are so short anyway, who often do not live to know which child could rule – for Dale has had some disastrous kings over the years, chosen purely on birth order, while their younger brothers or sisters would clearly have made a much better choice. He has seen this, he still finds the ways of different races interesting. 

That town, that brave experiment – he would not like to see it fall. There are families there he has known for many generations, they all have. They should not go into that darkness.

However, that is not the purpose of this assembly. Their King has called them, all his warriors, or those who are hunters with the ability to become warriors, to tell them of news which is of far more immediate concern.

“My people,” he says, “a shadow is growing in our Forest. Far in the south, there is an evil, a rumour and a threat. A fear grows as it grew before, not so very long ago as we count time. This time we have no Istar to look to for aid – I do not know where Mithrandir is, but I fear if we delay, the evil may grow too great.” He pauses, his eyes run over them in that way which may mean he is merely tallying his troops, but to every elf there, it feels as though his or her own self is being assessed, is known, valued for whatever they are. This, this skill, Caradhil thinks, is why they love him, why they will follow him, to whatever end.

“I would not have you attack beyond hope. This is not the time for such desperate valour. But – I would have you find out. I would have knowledge. I would have small bands go out, reconnoitre. Come home safe. Then – then we will see. I will decide what is to be done. My elves, who will do this?”

There is a clamour, or at least, it would be a clamour were they not elves – as they are, it is a melodic, tuneful noise, like a peal of bells. Almost all are ready to go. All but those with elflings, those newly-wed, those who know themselves to be unfit for such a journey, such a task, through wounds as yet unhealed, or some other cause. 

Caradhil, even as he joins the chorus, hears the voice he had hoped against hope not to hear, and for a moment closes his eyes – Elbereth, do not let me see it is as I fear – before he looks towards the sound. All three princes are, it seems, ready – but only one, only the one he still thinks of as the elfling, is desperate, and Caradhil wonders if he really believes that it will make a difference. That one reconnaissance, however well performed, could change the pattern of his father’s regard after all these many years.

In that long moment, Caradhil sees many images of that need. He sees a tiny elfling, sent to bed, looking back into the Hall with a longing that at the time he did not notice, that only later he began to understand. He hears a voice say uncertainly ‘Princes are not scared’, hears ‘Ada says I must use a sword’, hears ‘I will never be my Ada’. He sees a prince standing back from the dancing, looking for praise for restraint, and learning to be content with merely silence. He sees him practice over and over with knives, with bow, with that sword – and learn that however skilled with other weapons, only his failure will be seen. Although he never saw, he can imagine too well, an elfling looking for combing, yet rejected by one who has put away that need as an offering to love. He remembers a prince, gifted a necklace of green and white jewels, a symbol of worth, of love perhaps, on gaining archer’s braids, but hearing only the dismissive ‘do not lose these, you will not again change your braids in honour’ which, however meant, told him he would not marry, would not be desired. He sees a fighter out on patrol, ever ready to take foolish risks, to perform stunts, to seek to outdo all in vain hope that praise from others would fill that aching need. He hears the voice that has asked him, when they are combing, when these things can be spoken and others in courtesy do not listen, ‘what more can I do, I would please him, - Caradhil – tell me again, tell me Ada does love me, tell me of his joy when I was born – tell me how to make him care for me again?’ and he knows he has had no answer for that. He knows how he has tried, he knows how he has used his comb, his skill, his hands, his words in reassurance – and yet it can never be enough. It is not his care that is so longed for, so needed. 

He thinks again, I do not understand Sindar, how they are with each other, how cold, how alone they seem always to be. He thinks again, I am glad I am Silvan, that my Ada and Naneth loved me so, that were I to find One I could love, no elfling of mine would be so alone. He looks at his King, and wonders how one so cold can be so loved by all his elves.

 

The King smiles, and the warmth is like a summer’s day.

“My elves, I thank you. I shall speak with my advisors and we will plan – it will not be long. I ask you to have yourselves ready to leave within this moon’s cycle.” There is the gesture to depart, and they go, hurrying, chattering, full of the excitement and fear of imminent battle.

Caradhil looks for his prince, but he is nowhere to be seen. As he leaves, he finds a hand slips into his, and he sees Aglarcu is by his side,

“I – Caradhil, comb me tonight? I – I have not your courage or experience. I – I would be with you that you might lend me some.” The plea is hard to resist, and indeed Caradhil does not really want to. He too knows what can happen in battle, and would have some comfort, though he is not, he thinks, as brave as this elf – he could not ask for it. He returns the pressure on his hand,

“I would be with you also. Come, the morning will do for readying possessions, come to my chamber – tonight I would comb with you alone, before we know what groups we each must join and comb with.” He hesitates, knowing this is something he has never offered, nor the other asked, “unless – unless you wish to eat and be with others also this evening?”

But it seems that Aglarcu is not hungry.

 

 

It is some days later, and they are preparing to leave the Halls. Caradhil is not wholly surprised to find he is in his prince’s group again, but he is surprised and pleased to find that Aglarcu is also. There is no rule on close friends being together, but – often they are not, because the need for group meshing and combing together must come first. Someone must have decided that he and Aglarcu are capable of understanding that – someone, Caradhil thinks, who knows him well, and perhaps guesses that an excuse to leave the unusual exclusivity of the last few days would be welcome. 

It is not that he is not fond of Aglarcu, he is, very fond. But – he is not used to this, he is not used to one only, every night. It is – stifling. He thinks they are probably both relieved to be able to return to the way things were, without either of them having to say anything. Certainly, Aglarcu has not expressed any displeasure at being in a group once more, and certainly he has never before seemed to desire exclusivity. It was just the thought of this expedition that had them both wishing for comfort, that is all. Nothing more.

 

As with every group, their King comes to bid them farewell. This is not a war, it is a reconnaissance expedition, so he is not himself leaving the Halls – something, Caradhil later reflects, he may feel guilt over.

“Take no needless risks, my elves,” he says, raising one eyebrow, “you are of no use to this realm if you are with Mandos.” They all smile, knowing their King has a horror of any excess of emotion. He looks them all over, compliments one on her newly earned braids, another on his dancing at the previous night’s feast, “I shall hope to see you dance again soon,”. He comes to Caradhil, “Go well, Finbonaur-il, and see if you can find a use for that famous dagger.” It seems he has a word for each of them, and that he knows more of their lives than they realised – to Aglarcu he says, “Be not afraid, fight for the pride of your – friendship,” and smiles as the elf blushes. 

Last he turns to his son, “Take care of my elves,” he says, “do not spend their lives by your folly.” Caradhil sees that look in his prince’s blue eyes, and wonders how his King can resist the appeal, as he answers, “I will serve you as best I can – as ever I do.” There is a pause, then in a low voice, “When – if – I return, I beg you Ada, think better of me?” 

A long moment of eyes meeting, then Thranduil says, with his usual hauteur, “That, ion-nin, will depend on the manner of your return. And the numbers of my elves you bring back.” And as he turns away, Caradhil sees the haunted elfling once more. 

 

 

The Halls are in sight once more. Valar be praised, they may all make it home. For a moment, Caradhil spares a thought for the other bands – he knows there were five such sent out, and it has been some time now since they had sight of any. He hopes things have gone better for them, but – he has no real reason to believe it likely. 

From the first, the groups had kept separate, as they were ordered to do – they were each to scout a different section of the Forest, and the smaller the numbers travelling together, the less likely to be spotted by unfriendly eyes. So – now, he has no idea what has become of those others, beyond the fear that the battle noises they heard far-off did not bode well.

As for their group – of fifteen, seven are injured, two badly. Like all elves, they have some knowledge of healing, of the treatment of such wounds – enough to cope, enough to know Meieriel and Finnaur are in desperate need of more help than they can give. Enough to keep the other five on their feet, moving fast.

And now – now the Halls are in sight, they seem to have lost the spiders which have tracked them, knowing them for weakened prey – and Caradhil thinks that in all his years, never until now has he truly hated those creatures, never until now has he felt the horror of such spawn of Ungoliant, never until now has he understood how the older elves grieve so for a time he cannot remember when such things were not in this Forest. 

Never until now has he truly appreciated his prince’s courage and, perhaps, sheer idiocy when it comes to drawing these creatures away from the wounded, luring them to within his bowshot.

The orcs – they did not dare follow this far or this long. When once their ambush had failed, they would not come to close quarters again, preferring to harry from a distance – so that every step of the road home has been a compromise between care for the injured, speed from the enemy, and caution lest the spiders (or worse) be ahead.

But now – now the Halls are ahead. And as he thinks this, he realises that the gates are open, the guards have seen them – and are calling for aid to be sent out to them. 

 

By the time they are all safe inside, healers have already taken charge of Meieriel and Finnaur – they seem not surprised by the wounds, by the severity. The other injured have been glanced over, and judged able to be questioned before going to find the aid they also need. Caradhil is surprised – he had thought Aglarcu at least was in more need of help – but perhaps he is more fond than he had realised, and it colours his vision.

As they stand, drinking the wine offered, the King comes to them.

“You are the last to return,” he says, looking them over, and Caradhil is aware, as are they all, of the sorry state of them, and feels his ears flush with shame, but the King has not finished, “all but two of you are here – and they are with the healers, I am told. Is this true?”

It is for the prince to speak – they all look to him, and he remembers before the pause becomes too long, “Yes my lord King. I – I am sorry – they – we have hope they will recover.” He swallows, then, “If we are the last, then – then you will know already, there – there are most definitely orcs returned to the south. The southern Halls are – it seems – lost beyond recall. We – it seemed – we guessed there was a power behind them – but – I – I am sorry, my lord, we could not approach close enough for any real knowledge.” He breathes and licks his lips, “The spiders were bolder than I or any of us have known them before. We – at times we thought we would not see these Halls again. I – I am sorry for our lack of composure.” 

Indeed, they are all so glad to be home, they are not as elves should be, they are giddy with relief. 

The King looks at them, and raises one brow, “I will hear your full report later – go and make yourselves presentable.” 

They gather themselves together, and as Caradhil takes Aglarcu’s weight again, he hears his prince say,

“Ada, I – I am sorry Ada. I – truly, I did try. I – I have failed you again. I – I am sorry.”

There is a pause, and he makes himself concentrate on his friend – he will not look, this is not his concern, but he hears the King speak,

“Legolas, we thought you all dead. You – ion-nin, you have neither disgraced nor disappointed me this day.” 

And as the King sweeps past him, away to his throne room, Caradhil finds he must hand Aglarcu to another, and turn to his prince, who is standing, hand raised as though to treasure a touch on his ear, looking after his father.

“Caradhil – he – I am not dreaming? He – he truly said that?”

Caradhil smiles, and wonders if this is an omen for the future, or is this merely a moment to treasure,

“You are not dreaming, my prince. I also heard his words. Do not forget them.” You will need them over the years, he thinks.

 

Indeed, those words are probably needed that evening when, at the feast, Caradhil sees once again the older princes each side of their father, with their wives, and the youngest prince sitting quiet, seemingly forgotten. The youngest prince watching the dancing he may not join. The youngest looking after his father as he leaves the hall alone, and Caradhil knows Legolas will be in need of combing and reassurance for long tonight before he can find reverie.

And, with a twist in his heart, he hopes that as he cares for his prince, someone else will do the same for Aglarcu. For he too is in need of reassurance, but Caradhil knows where his loyalty lies. Where it will always lie. Where it is most needed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finbonaur-il - star of Finbonaur. slightly more poetic, emphatic, praising way of saying Finbonaur's child (son).


	6. Chapter 6

Caradhil sings quietly. He is happy to be travelling again – he is happy to be travelling in the King’s train. It is unusual for the King to leave the Forest – this visit to the dwarf-realm of Erebor must be for some great purpose. Perhaps the Kings wish to build ties of friendship, he thinks – for surely that would benefit all? All wish to live in peace, all wish for easy trade, and the security of safe travel – Caradhil stills the reflexive desire to touch his ears for security. That was centuries ago. He would not be so foolish again.

At first the lands seem to have hardly altered in all this time, but as they approach the mountain, they see that Dale has grown. No longer a – what was it – ‘bustling market town’, this is now a proud capital of a kingdom. Small, perhaps, but becoming more powerful – and in alliance with its growing neighbour it is more powerful than it might appear. Indeed, the elves would be wise to build friendships here.

 

They come to where the path divides, and they must choose whether to go into Dale, or to approach the main gate of the dwarves. The King calls a halt, and turns to his elves,

“I do not fear the Naugrim,” he says, “and so I take only a handful of my company into their stronghold. They will offer me no discourtesy, for they are a cunning people, much concerned with trade – and they know we of the Forest have much they desire.” He points out those who are to come with him, then turning to the rest, continues, “Do not think you do not also have an important task. I would have you go on into Dale, to walk its streets, browse its market – see what is there, see what the prices are, listen to the talk of the people.” He pauses, raises a brow, and gestures to one of his courtiers, “Give each elf some coin, as we discussed, Aeglhewig, no doubt at least some of them will be tempted to make purchases – and we wish no – incidents.” 

Caradhil flushes, knowing all eyes are on him, and his ears – which burn. 

Amid the chatter and animated discussion which must accompany any such division of a group of wood-elves, the King speaks to Caradhil,

“Finbonaurion, I remind all of your foolishness as a warning – if I truly believed you to be as forgetful of your fear as that, you would not be here.” He reaches out and raises Caradhil’s still flushed face to meet his eyes, “You are here, because you are not a fool. Keep watch over my elves in this town of Men – as I know you watch over my son in the Forest. My son, who must learn to manage without you while you are here – and that is but one more gain, for you cannot always cover his errors.” Thranduil waits, to see that he is understood, then adds, “Now, enjoy your venture. Find a gift for the ever-patient Aglarcu – he will be counting the days until your return.” And as he rides away at the head of his entourage, Caradhil wonders if there is indeed any part of the life of any elf in his kingdom which the King does not know.

 

The time they have in Dale seems too short. Caradhil is disappointed, but – he made one purchase, which he hopes will please, and – the sooner they leave, the sooner they return.

As for why the time is so short – in their hearts none are surprised. Naugrim are Naugrim. They cannot be trusted. Their word is not to them what it is to elves. 

None would ever doubt their King’s word.

 

 

Caradhil is pleased with himself. He truly thinks Aglarcu will be delighted with his gift, and, he admits, this matters more than he expected. He has not yet had chance to speak alone with the other – for there is a feast to welcome home the King, and the dancing goes on until late. Caradhil does not dance – he is tired from travel, and content to watch.

As the elves begin to leave the hall, Caradhil puts an arm round Aglarcu, confident the other will be pleased by the sign of affection, and speaks quietly, “Comb with me? I have missed you.” He notes the answering flushed ear-tips, and leads the way to his room. 

Closing the door, he breaks away and goes to where he has left the packet he carried from Dale.

“I bought you a gift,” he says, offering it, “I thought – I hoped to please you, for,” this is harder than he expected, “for you matter much to me.”

With a rush of guilt, he sees the delight in the other’s face, and thinks perhaps he has been slow to say this. Aglarcu opens the packet, and pauses, then says in a flat voice,

“You bought me hair-beads. They are – very nice.” He swallows, and adds, “I thank you. It was kind of you to remember me.” He turns to put the packet down, and Caradhil sees his hand brush over his face, sees him stand still for a moment, then turn back with his usual smile, “I missed you also. Comb me, Caradhil?”

They curl together, but as Caradhil works his hands through his hair, he knows he has upset him, but cannot think why. I told him I cared for him, I bought him a gift – did he not want that? I thought we were – almost combmates. As near as I can be. I do not think either of us would have more – I – perhaps it is too much? I thought he would be pleased. I – my King suggested I do so. Surely – surely he would not have come to my room, he would not have seemed so delighted to see me, to have my arm about him, if he did not want some sign from me? Or, he wonders, is it simply that he does not like them – but I thought they were pretty, I thought they would suit his hair, they – they were not inexpensive. 

Perhaps, Caradhil thinks, I am simply very bad at choosing gifts – I have only tried twice, and neither comb nor beads have been received with the joy I hoped. He decides that should he have reason to go to Dale again, he will only buy items for himself. Clearly shopping is not where his skills lie – unless, he reminds himself, unless it is different when you meet your One, unless then you know what to choose.

Caradhil sighs, and continues to use his hands and comb – in this, at least, he is confident of his skill, and after a while he feels the other relax, and finds words also.

“I missed you, Aglarcu, I am glad to be with you again. I thought of you much. I – I am pleased to comb with you. I would have your hands in my hair, I would have you sing to me.”

And things are well.

Or, as well as they have ever been.

 

Much later, Aglarcu lies awake, staring at the beads, as Caradhil reveries beside him. They are indeed pretty, they will suit his hair colour, they are quite possibly valuable, and will not break soon. He should be pleased. It is the first time Caradhil has given any gift to him. For all he knows, it is the first time Caradhil has given a gift to any. And to choose to comb with only him tonight – after so long away, when there must be many he wishes to greet. That means much.

Yet. It is not enough. He begins to wonder whether what he longs for will ever come to pass, and if not, what will he do? How long can he wait for Caradhil to see how it is?

What if Caradhil sees, but does not love him also? What then?

And the desolation this thought brings tells him he is right to stay silent, to wait, to be patient. He reminds himself there was a time when he never thought he would comb with Caradhil. He reminds himself that, even when they combed together within their group, he never thought he would comb alone with Caradhil. Never thought it possible to reverie together like this.

And if this which means so much to him does indeed mean little to Caradhil – then he has still had that which he never thought possible. He tells himself to keep the words he longs to speak in his heart a while longer, do not speak that which Caradhil is not ready to hear. For, he knows, if Caradhil felt this way, he would have no fear, he would speak, he would know all desire him, all would be honoured by his attention.

Do not risk that you have gained in the search for something you may never have.

Aglarcu tells himself all this. But, with the knowledge that he spent the time fashioning a comb from polished wood, with the need in his heart still unmet – were he not an elf, he would sob.

He reminds himself that he is an elf. He can wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes, we are finally approaching events in the Hobbit backstory now. (I hope the thousands of years have not been too compressed, but I find there is a limit as to how much plot I can invent about elves in a forest not doing much......)


	7. Chapter 7

The group is glad of a time of peace, time of rest at the Halls, a time to practice their skills – with weapons, and – other skills. To laze days away, combing under trees, to sing, to drink wine, to be as Silvan elves like to be.

Even their Sindar has been looking almost relaxed.

Until now. Now when it must be nearly time for the group to be moved on to something more – active. Something requiring leadership.

“My prince,” Caradhil’s voice is lowered as he reaches down to stroke an ear, his right hand keeping its even combing pace, “my prince, what worries you so? You are tense tonight. You need not be, my prince, all is well here. All look to you as our leader, my prince.”

After a moment, 

“Caradhil, I – I – “ Legolas pulls up and away from Caradhil’s hands, and sits, his face turned down, eyes on the ground – and probably flushing again, Caradhil thinks, - appearing not to notice the consternation among the rest of the group. Caradhil makes a small gesture, and they continue combing, all pretending to be absorbed in their song, although Caradhil – and Legolas if he stopped to think – know full well each elf is listening – for no-one, no-one pulls away from Caradhil’s comb. “Caradhil, I am no leader. You know this, I know this – they all know this,” he gestures at the listening elves, who continue to pretend to be very busy, “Ada – Ada above all knows this. Why must we all keep up this charade? You are the leader of this group, not I. All I do is as you tell me. I am no prince when I am with you. I – I can never be anything but another fighter beside you.”

Caradhil is taken aback. He had not known it was so clear – he had not known it mattered.

“My prince,” he begins, “I – I only ever serve you and my King. You know this.” He stops, thinks, then decides that perhaps now is as good a time as any, “besides, this of all times, is not the time for this discussion.” He sighs, and raises his voice a little, giving the rest permission to listen, “I was going to tell you all later, but, you know our lord King sent for me earlier today?”

“Yes,”  
“The group knows,”  
“We wondered.......?”

“Yes, I know you did, you would not be elves if you did not. He – it seems there have been changes in the world outside the Forest. The Naugrim have fled Erebor, the town of Dale is destroyed, - a dragon has come. Smaug. Chiefest and greatest of calamities of this age, as he is called by some. He is King under the Mountain now.” He stops, to let the group assimilate this news.

“A dragon!”  
“Dale destroyed!”  
“All those people – dead. All those homes gone.”  
“Naugrim homeless.”  
“Wandering.”  
“Should have been more careful.”  
“Less prideful.”  
“Less greedy.”  
“Less – Dwarven?”

There is nervous laughter. 

“My group, this is no laughing matter. Many are dead. Many are homeless. Our King – our King has declared our borders tightened. There will still be trade with the Men of Esgaroth, but only very restricted, very limited.” Caradhil turns and faces his prince, “all groups are to be reassessed. My prince, you are to be back with the Hall guard. I – and many of us – will be here for a while, then on Long Patrol.” He hesitates, then, because the earlier words hurt him, “So, you will have your wish, my prince. You will not be leader, Tauriel is leader of the Guard. And you will not have to bear with my company any longer which, since it tires you, is fortunate.”

And Caradhil, for the first time in all these years, is the one to walk away. 

 

He goes to his chambers, and wonders for a time what he will do with the rest of his life, if his prince truly wants him no more. It seems to him he can barely remember a time before he cared for this prince. 

He remembers the first time. He had been with his group, by the archery range, combing in the sun – it was a time when all needed much combing – the queen not long left them, the Halls still desolate from that, he and many still finding empty spaces where they looked for friends and loved ones, although it was many years in the count of Men since the massacre of Dagorlad. Suddenly one among them had spoken softly 

“There is the elfling. Poor little thing. See how he watches – Caradhil, you are the youngest, none could be shy of you – go and gather him up, bring him for combing.”

“He certainly needs it, poor motherless one,” and now at this distance, Caradhil cannot remember the name of either elf – it is long since he saw that group. He does remember going over though, and looking for the first time into those blue eyes, shining with tears that day,

“Come, little one,” what did he know of elflings? “come – do not weep – come and listen to the tale of Luthien. All elves need to know stories. Even princes.” And he picked him up, and carried him to join the group. Even at this distance, he can remember the surprising weight of one so small, the warmth, the solidity, the comfort of holding him on his lap, of combing him, as any would for such a woebegone child. He remembers little sticky fingers – and what they were sticky with, in the middle of the Forest, he did not wish to know – little sticky fingers reaching up to his hair, to the hair of all the elves as the elfling was passed around the group. Remembers blue eyes shining now with pleasure at the shades of sun in Silvan hair, all the colours of the autumn forest, but all the warmth of a summer afternoon. Remembers giving the elfling wine – and only realising afterwards that this is a Sindar – they probably dilute their wine, they may not even give wine to elflings – although what else they drink, none of the group knows. 

It seemed not to do any harm, the little one was no trouble, he seemed happy among them. And – they enjoyed having him. There was something so simple, so easy about such a creature, so pleased to be fussed over, so affectionate.

It was, in his memory, a golden afternoon. Golden with sunlight, golden with happiness, golden with the leaves of that far-distant wood in the tale, golden with a prince’s hair. But – gold does not last. The group went back to the hall, taking the little prince with them – and found he had not been missed. Caradhil remembers how that struck him as the saddest thing, that the child had wandered off for so long, so desolate – for he had been, he had been tearful when they found him, though he would not tell why – and none had noticed. He remembers how they had brought him to the King – and the King had looked at him, without a shred of the affection he always has for his elves, and said,

“Legolas, you have no business running after my hunters, my warriors, making a nuisance of yourself. Go to your room. Learn your place. A prince contains himself.”

Caradhil – who would be the first to admit he knows little and in those days knew even less of elflings – did wonder if any child knows they are a prince, understands the expectations when they have barely begun to speak.

That afternoon, that was the start of it, of this need to protect, and now, are those bitter words to be the end of it? 

 

After a time, there comes a noise at his door. Caradhil is set to ignore it, but – it was not a question. The door opens, and Caradhil feels the elf settle on the bed behind him, feels the hand and comb begin to work through his hair.

“Caradhil, my Caradhil, leader of my heart, the one I was born to follow, Caradhil, enjoy my comb, let my hands on your ears stroke the cares away, Caradhil, relax, let me hold you, soothe you, please Caradhil, let me be with you, do not shut me out.” And it is good to be wanted, good to be cared for – Caradhil does relax into the embrace, into the sensation, he allows the hands and voice to take away the pain. He will stay here, stay with one who wants him, who cares for him – one who, he knows, is also to be out on patrol with him for many, many months.

And if, somewhere in the depths of his mind, he knows this is not entirely fair, that he is taking and not giving, that this is not truly honourable behaviour – he comforts himself with the thought that he has never lied, never sought out this which is offered so freely, that surely Aglarcu knows how it is, has chosen this, feels much as he does.

Caradhil does not know, and Aglarcu has not the words to tell him, that for him, there is no choice. He is an elf. His heart rules him, even when his head tells him this will bring only pain.


	8. Chapter 8

So this is how it feels. This is how it is to stand, waiting for battle, knowing many of those around you, those you have combed with, sung with, lived with all your life, many will die. Maybe even I will die, maybe when next the stars shine down, I, Caradhil, will not be here to greet them, I will not be combing, singing under them. 

Is this how you felt, all those years ago, Ada, Naneth? Did you feel this fear, did you know for a while what it would be to be mortal?

Was it worse, to know if aught befell you, there would be an elf – not an elfling, I was no elfling, but – your child – left? Or did it make sense of your life, that something would remain?

Was it worse, to stand together, knowing the One you loved was in danger, to know they might also die, or might die under your gaze while you could do nothing?

Or is it worse, to stand as I do, knowing there has never been One – and that now, perhaps there never will be – to know that it is my fault, my lack of inclination, that means I have never found – never truly sought, One I could feel that for?

 

Caradhil does not know the answer to any of his questions. He supposes that if all goes ill, he will have the chance to ask his parents in the Halls of Mandos this night. And the thought almost makes him smile, almost comforts him. 

How did it come to this? When his patrol was called in before its time was up, none expected this. Their King was angry for the loss of the dwarven prisoners, angry with his son’s escapades, angry with the defection of the Captain of the Guard, but above all, he was angry with the dwarves. Angry that any could be such fools as to approach a mountain that contains a dragon, angry that they had not asked for his aid, angry that they had deceived the Men of Esgaroth, and gained their aid, breaking a long alliance.

The King was angry, the King wished to have his warriors ready, under his eye. And when there was news of the dragon’s fall, the King was ready to march – for there are jewels in that mountain that have long been desired, owned by him. Due to him. So the elves say. So they have been telling each other, and, as one who was part of that ill-fated visit to Thror, even though he did not enter the mountain itself, Caradhil has been quick to recall his King’s words, the dispute, the untrustworthiness of the dwarves.

He has tried not to hear the tales of his prince’s capture of these dwarves, of the errors that have let them escape, of the vain pursuit, the half whispered, half understood tales of perhaps – who knows what – the Captain of the Guard feeling some regard for a dwarf? An honoured enemy, a noble fighter – some such. 

Not his prince, he reminds himself. Not anymore. Not for many years now. Do not question his actions, above all do not defend them. It is not your place. Not anymore. And it will bring hurt, hurt to one who does not deserve it.

At the thought, he glances to his left, and sees, as ever, Aglarcu at his side, awaiting his command, showing no sign of the fear he must also feel. They are elves. They do not show these things.

No. They stand, impassive, waiting.

Caradhil returns to his thoughts, glad to have something other than the imminent battle to focus on. 

That had been a most uneasy time, at the Halls, all held in readiness, but not knowing for what, not knowing what their King expected. So that when the news came, when the dragon had fallen, they were ready. They marched.

And when they saw the ruins of Esgaroth – Caradhil was not the only one to grieve. Many of them knew that town, many of them had admired its courage, drunk its ale, enjoyed its song. To find so many homeless was truly distressing, and they all were glad that their King was so ready to give aid. – As ever, their King knew their wish before they did. 

Maegsigil was but one of many who volunteered to remain and help the Men begin to rebuild. He who perhaps remembers all too well the feeling of losing your home, your family, all that you cared for, because some dwarves have done something, woken some foul creature. He who lost his home and family to the Balrog that came out of the depths of Moria and wreaked such destruction upon the elves of Lothlorien. He who knows that whatever evil has befallen such foolish dwarves, those who have suffered by it will feel no pity, for nothing in their lives can ever be the same again.

After all these years, Caradhil still grieves for the hurt he sees in his friend, in so many of those who came as refugees in that time - and were welcomed, for never would his King turn away an elf who needed their aid.

 

 

Now, suddenly, it seems the time for reflection, for reciting the deeds, the words, the anger between dwarves, men and elves that has brought us to such a pass – that time is over.

No time now to think of the words of a proud and angry dwarf. No time to wonder if men and elves might have used different words, slower words, persuaded, not raged.

No time to wonder if Mithrandir could not have stepped forward earlier, said something, done something to make things right.

No time to wonder if the halfling – strange to find there are still new races in this world – if the halfling really had a way to avert this bloodshed.

No time now for any of it.

No matter now. This is no battle of elves against dwarves, no battle of those who should be able to be – not friends but – not enemies. This is a battle such as has been fought before. 

This is an alliance of men and elves – and dwarves – against the forces of evil.

Caradhil knows he is exaggerating – but – a small part of him feels the excitement of an elfling. An elfling able to be within his dream. An elfling able to fight the battle he missed. An elfling at war, marching behind his King. 

He just wishes – he wishes this was in truth the sort of war he imagined. The sort where only the other force dies. But as the fighting rages, as the arrows fly, the knives twirl, the elves dance, he knows this is no game.

Orcs are dying, yes. 

Men are dying. Dwarves are dying. An unworthy thought rises in his mind – they are mortal, they lose little.

Elves are dying. 

Elves are not meant to die.

 

And as the battle moves on, as the dance of fighting becomes less joyous, there is only a moment, a fleeting instant, in which to choose. He does not even register there is a choice. In front of him, he can see his prince, his elfling, about to die, fighting for his life, no other there to protect him. From his side, there is a cry for help, for Caradhil, please, help me. 

He does not hesitate. 

He runs forward, fast as any elf can be. He finds he moves without thinking, the blow deflected, the orc killed, another and another. His prince has dropped a knife, is desperately battling with one, arrows spent. Between orcs, Caradhil spies the lost knife, he reaches with one of his own blades, seizes it, and spins, flicks it toward his elfling. Sees the perfect timing with which it is caught, and plunged into a neck, becoming part of the dance as though they had rehearsed it. For an instant their eyes meet, and Caradhil is warmed by the acknowledgment, by the relief he sees there. There is not time for speech, they must dance on, and they do.

Hours later, it seems, Caradhil is wandering the field, giving the mercy blow to orcs, wargs, horses, calling healers to elves, men or dwarves. He finds Brethylf. 

Brethylf’s body, that is. And he wonders what has become of Tawarwen, and the elfling. Suddenly he remembers the elfling, so long ago, so small, so compact in his arms when Brethylf left him in his care. He remembers seeing him chasing after Mithrandir, in the days when Mithrandir was just a wanderer, remembers the crowd of elflings calling ‘fireworks, Mithrandir, fireworks’. He wonders if Mithrandir remembers those days now that he seems to be so much more than they knew then. Wonders what became of the elflings. No longer elflings, he supposes, and with a cold feeling realises that they too could be here, they too could be dead.

After that, he tries to stop looking at faces. He does not want to recognise any. He does not want to think about this cold inside, this creeping feeling which says ‘where is your group?’

He meets Meieriel, she too is looking. They reach out, touch ears, are relieved to see each other, and continue on together. 

Until they come to where their group was parted. There are many bodies here, they fought well, there are piles of orcs and wargs. 

And an elf.

An elf whose face is turned away, so that at first Caradhil can tell himself he is wrong, it is not, those beads – those beads that came from Dale – there must be many with those, or ones like them. 

But as they draw closer, the elf moves. He is still alive. Meieriel draws back, looking to Caradhil. Caradhil thinks he is the last person this elf of all elves will want, he hears that cry again, he sees, as though from outside, he sees himself ignore it and move forward, hastening away. But Meieriel is saying she will get the healers, she is gone and he is left, left on the field of battle with the elf he did not protect.

He kneels beside him, he strokes those ears, those ears so well-known, so often touched.

“Aglarcu?” he says, “Aglarcu, I – I am here. Rest on me. Healers will be here soon. Hold on. Hold on for me.”

And the other looks up at him, and smiles, smiles through the pain,   
“Caradhil. You came back for me.”

He reaches up, and Caradhil bends his head down, for he can see the strength in his arms is failing, and Aglarcu touches his ears in return.

They look at each other, eyes meeting. Caradhil finds he must say it,

“I – I am sorry. I – I heard you. I could not come. I – I am sorry Aglarcu. Do – do not die. Please. Hold on now.”

The other blinks slowly, his hand clutches at Caradhil, 

“I can’t. It – it is too bad. They – do not lie to me. You can see my body is broken, better to go. I –“ he breathes painfully, “I can go now you are here. Please. Stay with me.”

“Of course. But – but you are going to be well. I – I would not lose you.”

Aglarcu smiles again, but it is a shaky smile, “I am sorry. I am sorry, my love. I – please. Just hold me.”

Caradhil holds him, but he is reeling, what is this word? They have never spoken of love. Something must show in his face, for Aglarcu swallows with difficulty, and says,

“I know it is not for you as it has been for me. I – I always knew. I love you. I always did. Please. Just hold me now.”

“Of course I will hold you. But – Aglarcu. I am sorry. I – stay with me.” Caradhil does not know what to do, what to say, what words can help. Bad it was to have left his friend to die, but – to have ignored this love for so long. No, his conscience says, not ignored. Taken advantage of. Taken and taken and taken. And what did you give? What did you ever give?

He strokes the other’s hair and ears, desperate for something to make it better, and as though he understands, Aglarcu speaks again,

“I chose it as it was. I – I always thought there was time enough. I thought – I thought one day. If I was patient. I – we are elves. I thought I had time to wait for you. And now I have no more time. But – I – oh Caradhil, I have loved you so. I would have given you my comb.” He stops again, and Caradhil can feel his tears on his cheeks, “hold me. Please. I – I always knew I came second to your prince. It – it was just ill-chance that I needed you when he did. I – I do not blame you.”

Suddenly Caradhil knows what he can give,

“I never loved him like that. I – he is the elfling I do not have. That is all. I – you are the only one I have combed alone with. Please. Do not die, do not leave me.”

“Truly? The only one?” and as Caradhil nods, such a smile comes over Aglarcu’s face that even in his blood and agony he looks more beautiful than Caradhil had imagined he ever could.

“Truly,” he says, and, impelled by something he does not fully understand, he leans down, and kisses Aglarcu. And as the other clutches again, and makes a small sound, he finds he is kissing gently at his cheek, his brow, over and over, his tears falling.

He does not know how long he stays, how long he is holding the body of his friend. He is still there when Meieriel comes back, he will not let Aglarcu go. He will not. He cannot leave him. 

He knows he is dead. He knows it is too late now. But – there is nothing else he can do. 

He carries the body to where all the elves are to be burned. But even here – he cannot just put him down, leave him. He has left him too often. He will stay now.

Why? He thinks. What use now? Why did I not see? 

And then he admits to himself – I did not see because I never looked. I never asked. I never wanted to know. 

I did not, could not love him as he loved me.

But – I wish I had not hurt him so.

 

It is a long day, a long evening. 

At some point, his King comes to him, while he sits with Aglarcu’s body, waiting for the pyre.

“Caradhil,” he says, gently, “I find I owe you my son’s life. I thank you. As he apparently has not bothered to do. I am sorry for your loss of Aglarcu.”

Caradhil looks at his King,

“I never loved him as he did me. I did not know. I – I do not know how to love like that.” He realises this is not the way to talk to his King, and, “My lord King, I thank you, I am sorry. My grief has confused me. I – your son’s life is precious to all your people. I am glad he is well. He owes me no thanks.”

The King makes a small gesture, as though to dismiss foolishness,  
“Grief does confuse.” Of course, Caradhil thinks, if there is one elf who knows grief, this is he. “Stay here, Caradhil. Do not blame yourself. Each chooses their own life. Aglarcu was not unhappy.” And he is gone. Off to speak to another. He has time for all tonight, he knows their pain.

 

As Thranduil passes between his elves, as he finds the words for each, as he reassures each one that their loss was not in vain, their loved ones died for a just cause, in defence of their homeland – for the war would have come to them had they not come to it – as he acts the part of the strong King, his mind is in turmoil.

So many dead. Valar, so many dead. Again. 

Because of Naugrim, because of Men, because of evil. 

Because of me. I am their King. I am supposed to protect them, keep them from this.

I had no choice. 

Yet – I did. I could have, should have, stayed in the Forest. Kept within our borders. Protected my elves.

Pride. Pride and desire for gems.

That is what they will say, that is what drew me out, drew me to lead them to this battle. This mountain where so many elves lie dead, dead as they were never meant to lie. 

My elves should not have died. 

Thranduil, you have betrayed your elves. You led them out for no good reason.

What if my foolish son, my Captain of Guard, were thoughtlessly risking their lives? That which is dear to Thranduil is not always dear to the King. That which Thranduil would die for, the King has no right to sacrifice his elves to save. That is not why they trust me.

I had no right to spend other elves to save my son.

But – he is my son.

I spoke the truth to Caradhil. I am sorry for his loss of Aglarcu, he did not deserve that death. He did not deserve to die knowing his love was so little returned.

Caradhil did not deserve to have that choice forced on him.

I am glad he chose as he did.

But I will have no Silvan courting my son. Caradhil will need watching. In time, I must find another to pursue, to occupy Caradhil.

My son – my son will have to marry one day.

I need an heir. I need an heir with elflings of his own. 

An heir my people love.

An heir they can trust.

An heir in whose hands I can leave all that I have made and know it is safe, that I may one day sail. One day. 

One day I will see my love again.

He makes a resolve, no more of this. I do not wish to see more elves die at my bidding.

I will not stay in this Middle Earth, I will not stay and watch more mortals bring more elves to death, over and over again.

I see my people weep, and I know it is my fault. I must speak to each one, acknowledge each loss, for what else can their King do.

 

And if my son has friends who he must mourn alone – he is used to being alone. 

And if I wish to comfort him more than all these elves – how can I? There is no wish in him for my love, my embrace. There never has been, he thinks, and again the memory of Thalion, Thalion running to him, seeking comfort, seeking his Ada twists inside him. Even Thirthurun, even Thorodwar, when they were small, even now – when they want something – they come to me. This son – never. Never does he turn to me.

It does not occur to him that tonight, tonight Caradhil has no thought, no energy to spare for Legolas, and who might be blamed that Caradhil watches by his friend’s body. Tonight Tauriel is not among the living, and who might be blamed for this, for accompanying such a risk-filled pursuit. 

Tonight the prince is truly alone.

But Thranduil does not think of this.

Besides, that which is dear to Thranduil is not of importance to the King.

Tonight he must be the King.

These loyal elves deserve that.


	9. Chapter 9

“.............Thaun enedh-riw! Thaun enedh-riw!  
Lais-gin gelin eldhenthaid.”

Caradhil hears his voice break on the final word. For all it is, has always been, his song, he cannot sing it without thinking of Aglarcu. He cannot sing anything without thinking of him, cannot do anything without thinking of him. He wonders if he did love him, if that is what this grief is for – but inside he knows, something tells him that no, this is guilt for his obliviousness, and grief for a friend. Nothing more.

If it were more – he knows, he is an elf – if it were truly more, he would be one of those who, having survived the battle, having done all that was asked in the aftermath, has come home and lain down to fade, to follow their One to Mandos. And that, Caradhil thinks, is not something he could ever do. Truly, he thinks, as he told his King, he does not have it in him to love like that.

Today he is back at the Halls, it is a good day. The Forest is beautiful, the weather, as it always is, is sent by the Valar, and must please, there will be food, wine and song tonight. And dancing. Caradhil shakes himself, it is not a disloyalty to dance – he did not always dance with Aglarcu when he was alive, he does not have to sit in stillness now he is dead. Yet – he begins to find a preference for watching.

His feet carry him along the Forest paths, so long-known, without his conscious thought, and so he is taken unaware when a voice speaks to him – a voice he has known so long,

“Caradhil Finbonaurion, I have been hoping to meet you. I – I find I need to ask your forgiveness. Again.”

He sighs, he had hoped to continue to avoid this,

“Prince, there is no need to ask forgiveness from one of your subjects, from a Silvan. You know this,” he pauses, then cannot help himself, he knows he should walk away, but – those eyes – he still looks like that elfling, “and for what? For what possible offence could you need forgiveness?” 

Legolas looks at him, helplessly,

“For whatever it is I have done that has you avoiding me. For whatever it is I have done that means I have no elf ready to speak to me, for Caradhil’s sake. For whatever it is I have done that has me left with none to spar with, none to shoot with. For whatever it is I have done that A – my lord King says I should go down on my knees and beg your pardon. For whatever it is I have done which has me left in the coldness of your ill-regard, when I would warm myself in the friendship I so long relied on,” he flushes, “and now for telling you more than you needed to know about my feelings, which are hardly relevant.”

Caradhil shrugs, “You are the prince. If you bid me forgive you, I must.” He turns, and would go, but,

“No, Caradhil, you cannot do this to me. Please. I beg you. I am on my knees, I – what have I done to you?”

And, facing away, because he knows one look at those eyes, and he will melt, will see only that elfling, hear only that sobbing, Caradhil speaks,

“What have you done? Nothing. I simply have no more to give. I – I have done much in your service, you know this. Yet when you wanted me no more, you did not hesitate to tell me I was too much, I would not let you lead. All those years I helped you, you were glad of me, and then – too much. Go. Dismissed. Never a word. And – you are the prince, it is for you to say how these things shall be, I did not protest. When you needed me, I was there, I was there, my hand found your knife and returned it to you. And at that moment – at that moment I lost one who was dear to me, for your sake I let him die. I find I cannot give more. I – I have nothing left in me. I do not know what these other elves are thinking. I do not bear you a grudge, it was not your choice. I just – I have nothing more in me.”

There is a silence. Caradhil does not turn. He waits.

“I am sorry.” If Caradhil did not know better, did not know that this is Thranduilion, he would think he could hear a sniff as of one who wishes not to cry, “I – Caradhil, please believe me, I have not meant any of this. I – I did not wish to dismiss you. I – I wanted you to lead me. You walked away. I – I thought you were angry, angry at being always a second yet doing the work for two. I – I longed for your help. I have made so many errors without you.”

Caradhil closes his eyes. Of course. He can believe this all too well. Always this prince has had no knowledge of his own ability. Always he has looked for help. How did he not see this? How could he have deserted him so, left him so alone? How could he have thought his pride mattered more than his prince? Caradhil can only blame himself for his foolish pride, that he walked away. He wonders for a moment why he was not recalled – why his prince did not ask him to come back before now? But Legolas is still speaking,

“I – I heard that you and Aglarcu – had not exchanged combs – but – but almost. I – I was happy for you. I – long I had seen his regard for you, and – and I had seen you with him so often. I – I did not want to be in your way – I saw that you were posted together – I rejoiced for you. I – did not – believe me I would not have broken that. I – I grieve for your loss. I would never have asked that of you. Please. Believe me. I did not know. I would have helped him, I would have – I would have had you save him. I knew – I knew he was dear to you – so dear – someone – a Silvan – who could – could love you, could only bring you honour.”

Caradhil turns, and he can see through his own tears, tears he is now so accustomed to, that his prince is indeed on his knees, he is begging. Suddenly he finds his own words,

“If you knew, if you had seen his care for me – why did you not tell me? Oh Valar, you are hardly the first to say this – but if all of you knew, why did no-one say to me ‘Caradhil, he loves you, Caradhil stop using him, Caradhil give him what he needs or walk away’? Why? In the name of Elbereth, why?” He leans against a tree, and presses his hands into his eyes, “Could not one of you have said this? Rather than wait until now, now when I can do nothing, now when I must live knowing how I hurt him, now you all tell me I was the only one who was so blind? – oh my prince, of course I will forgive you. How not when the pain you caused me is nothing to that I gave him, and I must hope for his forgiveness if ever we meet again?”

There is silence, and as Caradhil stares into the dark, watches the lights that come as he presses the tears back into his eyes, he wonders absently if the prince has left – for if an elf is quiet, even another elf cannot hear their feet. 

It seems not, for he hears breathing, he feels his hands held, pulled down away from his face, and then there is the touch of hands on ears, and his prince is saying,

“Caradhil, how could any of us speak? It was for him to speak, for you perhaps – but if he was content, if he did not speak – how could we?” 

He looks up from the ground and meets those eyes, 

“But – I did not know. I hurt him so. I would not have –“

“No. I know you would not,” Legolas pauses, “but – if you had known, what then? Would you have loved him? No. You would have pitied him, avoided him, perhaps scorned him – no, you think not now, but you would have. He knew you, Caradhil, he knew how it would be. He chose not, he chose silence, he chose to wait, to take what you could give, to love you without asking return. And now,” his voice shakes, “now, he has those memories. They are not spoilt for him by – by whatever you would have done. Give him the honour he is due – remember him, remember what you had. Do not pity him now. He died in your arms, and perhaps that is enough.”

He stops, and Caradhil thinks on what he has said, as they stand there, touching ears in their relief at talking again,

“Perhaps you are right. It is just – I feel as though all the time we had together was – a lie. And I cannot say it to any, because apparently all but I knew. So I am angry at you, because – because I can be.”

Legolas wrinkles his nose, “You can be. I – I am not an elfling any more. I know that has been your thought of me, but – I am not. And what you had was not a lie. Do not think that. It was his choice, his decision – and he was no elfling either. You are not responsible for others.”

Caradhil smiles, and shakes his head,

“You are indeed grown. My prince, not many wish to live by their own choices – but, you are right. Aglarcu was no fool, no coward. I honour him, I – I felt much for him. But – not love. Not as he wished it. – I – I would have known.”

There is silence, and Caradhil looks at this new prince, this I-am-no-elfling prince, this older-seeming prince who has become – stronger, and finds he must ask,

“What of your grief? The captain, Tauriel – I never combed with her, but – they said – you were close. How fare you in these days of mourning?”

Legolas shrugs,

“I grieve. But – I grieve for what we had, not for the future we did not. I – you read me well, even from afar, Caradhil – I had wondered – but – no. She loved another, and he also is dead.” He looks away, “how could you think I could comb with her alone? She was Silvan. You know my lord King would not allow me to behave so.”

Caradhil understands.

They stand a moment longer, then Legolas says,

“But – where were you going? I – I admit I was wandering hoping to meet you, as I have often these past days, but you – what was your purpose?”

Caradhil looks about him,

“Do you know, I have no idea?”

This strikes them both as funny, and they laugh, then Caradhil says,

“But it is long since I saw you use a bow – show me, master not-an-elfling-any-more – how have you improved?”

His prince, ah, once again, his prince, raises an eyebrow, and answers,

“Oh I will show you. And I think you will be surprised – I am accounted good. Even A – my lord King admits I can shoot. But – I would still like your help with my sword practice.”

And Caradhil laughs again,

“Still? Have you not yet accepted you will never be a sword-fighter? You are too much the wood-elf – stick with your bow and knives.”

But as they walk towards the practice grounds, for all the ‘I am no longer an elfling’ it is that long ago voice he hears when the other answers,

“I accepted this long ago. However, my lord King remains sure that the sword is the only weapon for a royal Sindar. Which, unfortunately, my hair proclaims me to be. So I must still practice.” And it is the same feeling of protectiveness that is called out when he adds, “after all, one day, one day, I may earn his praise.”

And Caradhil finds himself back, reminding his prince that he did earn praise, he is valued. That his King was neither disappointed nor disgraced by him that day – that day they came back with all their group safe from the reconnaissance. Do you not remember, my prince, he touched your ears? It meant so much. He does love you. He loves you in his way. He – he desires only the best from you. He will not accept less as he would not from himself.

The words come so easily, Caradhil wonders if he has begun to believe them himself. After all, they may even be true.

 

 

After this day, Caradhil finds his grief begins to become like to that grief he feels for his parents, for all those he has loved and lost. It is real, it is there, but he needs not feel that great weight of guilt. Indeed, he made mistakes, he took more than he should, more than he gave, he did not turn, he did not prevent death – but – it was not all his fault. He was not wilfully cruel. He did not mean to hurt, he did not know.

And he said the right thing, by the grace of the Valar, the words were given to him to ease Aglarcu’s passing. That helps.

If he is entirely honest, he is helped too by his renewed friendship – for such it now is – with his prince. No longer must he avoid him, no longer does he even feel he must only serve. The little elfling has grown, they are now friends – combs can be used as among equals.   
And this comfort too is much – for a long time, Caradhil had felt it was expected of him not to wish to comb, but – he is Caradhil. He combs. It is what he does. A lot. 

The announcement of his appointment to the prince’s group, as a second once again, does not come as a surprise to either of them, although it seems many receive the news with raised brows.

“It is as I feared,” his prince says to him, “I am blamed for your loss of Aglarcu, and it is, I hear, all a scheme to have you back to do my work, which I cannot manage.”

Caradhil smiles, “I think, my prince, if you listen, only those who are – shall we say – close to your brothers – think this. And – I shall speak and comb with those I can.”

Legolas smiles also, “Ah, and we all know, that if Caradhil thinks something today, those he combs with tonight will think it tomorrow.”

He inclines his head, “Your honour is safe in my hands, my prince.”

That answering raised eyebrow, “And, indeed, even my lord King has absolved me of this. By pointing out to any who care to listen, that I simply have not the required deviousness, intelligence or ability to plan. I am most grateful for his confidence.”

But for all the scheming and plotting and tales of courtiers – it is not long before they are out in the woods, on patrol again, a band who will live together, comb together, fight together for many months. And life is sweet once more.


	10. Chapter 10

Guard duty. Caradhil is not overly fond of guard duty, although being based at the Halls does have its compensations – food, wine, and a choice of combing groups being the main ones.

But – guard duty of a prisoner. That is even worse than ordinary guard duty, and to guard one so small, so pathetic – for despite his undoubted malice, he is pathetic – there is little honour in this. 

Exactly why their King has agreed to guard this creature, he is not sure. His prince does not know, and they are not entirely sure the King really knows – they suppose that if a wizard asks, it is hard to say no. Indeed this creature must be important to Mithrandir, or he would not have come so far, so fast merely to speak with him. Nor would he have spoken so long, nor listened to so tedious a creature. He even asked them to not only keep it safe, but care for it – watch over it day and night, and take it out, give it sunlight and trees. 

Caradhil has no idea why. It seems odd to him. The creature is repulsive. It serves no useful purpose, any information it had has been obtained. Better to kill it, put it out of its misery – for it is not happy. He is not sure it can ever be happy. Certainly not with elves – it has made that clear. It hates them, it says their food chokes it, their ropes bite it, their eyes burn it, their moon frightens it – why leave it here then? Mithrandir, he thinks, if you truly wanted to redeem this creature, take it somewhere it has a chance of sympathy. 

He does not say this. His prince thinks highly of Mithrandir – Caradhil suspects, listening to words that have been dropped and adding them together, that Mithrandir may be one who had words of comfort for him in his grief at the death of Tauriel and so many others after that battle caused by those wretched dwarves and their hunger for gold. Caradhil feels guilt again – for he was not there for his prince then, so caught up in his own grief that he forgot his duty, his care.

Be that as it may, Caradhil does not like this creature, he does not like guarding it, and he is not sure that, Mithrandir’s request or no, he wishes to be doing a favour for that most peculiar Man who brought this Gollum to them. Caradhil knows the lives of Men are short – but he has met many Men in his time, and most of them seemed to find their lives long enough to spend time with soap and water, and even a hairbrush. Still, this was a ranger, brought up by Noldor – what can you expect? His King has always said trust none outside these borders.

However, today he is not on duty. His prince is not on duty. His beautiful golden prince, now shining with the happiness that comes from work well done, from friends ever close. They have a whole blessed day to enjoy the sun, the trees, and no need for arms practice of any kind. No need to be with others they find. No need at all. Today, it is just them. They can wander through the trees, keeping to the quieter paths, talking of little and – and yet much can be said without words. They are elves, there is song, there is always song – and if they find that the song they choose today is perhaps different from other days – what of it? Today is a good day. Today there is no need to speak of – of how things are. Today is for enjoying.

Today, for all Caradhil still uses the words, today there is no prince, no difference between them. Today, there is no Silvan, no Sindar. Today – today there is Caradhil and Legolas. Today all is simple, and easy and understood. There is no need of words, no need of explanations, no misunderstandings – how can there be between two who know each other so well? Two who have lived so many centuries in one Forest, under one roof, fighting together, training together, singing together. 

Today, eyes can meet, and hands can touch, arms can reach round shoulders. Today – today ears can be stroked even though there is no group, no need to reassure. Today – today leads to tonight. And at the thought, both find there is a hitch in their breath, a wonder – where will we comb, how will it be? Perhaps even a fear, will it be as we hope, will all be well? Tonight – tonight is the unknown.

But today – today is golden.

The day passes and when they hear that evening that the little prisoner has refused to come in, has stayed up his tree – they laugh. They laugh as they sit at a table in the hall, still drinking, though they have long since finished their food. Long have they sat here together – for neither of them knows quite where this day should end. And so they laugh, as they have laughed so much this day, when they picture the prisoner up in his tree as the darkness falls. They will redeem him yet, they say, they will make an elf of him – after all, is he not now up a tree, waiting for the stars?

“Perhaps he sings,” Legolas, relaxed for once, is, the only word possible, is giggling and Caradhil moves the wine away from him, “no, Caradhil, I am not an elfling, I will drink as I wish. Oh Elbereth, perhaps the little creature is singing – and perhaps we can be rid of him soon.”

“But,” Caradhil is not in any better state, “but, my prince, what would he sing? Oh stars, be kind to poor little Sméagol, he never meant to do any wrong, he only wants a fish, be kind to poor Sméagol.”

They lean against each other, and Caradhil runs a hand through that hair, so blond, so fine. He is wondering whether tonight is the night he dare suggest combing together, alone. He winds a strand around his finger, and looks at it, so gold, so beautiful. 

There is dancing at the other end of the Hall, and he leans to speak into his prince’s ear, he runs his finger, still entwined in hair, over the tip of the other and down the cheek, as he says,

“I would like to see you dance again, my prince, my Legolas. I would have you dance with me, for me.”

He feels a shiver run through the body so close to him, feels his prince’s head rest on his shoulder, and knows, he knows, that in a moment his prince will look up at him, and he will look into those blue eyes and be lost. Is this love? he wonders, is this love at last? This, this need to protect, to comfort, this awareness of another’s thoughts, needs, fears? This desire to see him joyous, is this what love is? His other hand leaves his wine and moves to take his prince’s hand, to stroke those archer’s fingers, calluses matching his own, and he finds he wonders no longer.

“Such golden hair, my Legolas, so beautiful. So tangled by our day, by this wine and heat – and now by my straying fingers,” he breathes, waiting, and sees a flush begin at the ear-tips, allows his hand to smooth across the other’s cheek, hears the whispered,

“Caradhil – I – I –I am Sindar – ”, hears the hesitation, and leaning closer answers,

“My prince, you are Sindar. You are an elf. You are no daughter of Men, no peredhel, neither your heart nor your comb are locked in your father’s keeping. They are yours, to bestow where you will.”

He waits, still tracing soft shapes with this golden hair upon his prince’s cheek, still stroking those strong fingers, until there is an answer,

“Caradhil, my comb – my comb is yours – you gifted it me long ago.”

But that is not enough.

“It was, as I said, a gift with no expectations. My prince, my Legolas, your comb is your own.”

Now, gently, he begins to raise this hesitant face towards him, he wishes to see those eyes as the words he hopes for are finally spoken,

“I – I – Caradhil – I do not know – I do not know – the words – I,” he stops, and Caradhil thinks, I cannot help you, this – this must come from you. He waits.

And as they breathe, as they approach ever closer, there is a shout,

“Yrch! Yrch!”  
“They are attacking!”  
“Close the gates!”

Caradhil finds he is not as drunk as he had thought – and nor is his prince – their eyes meet and they say,

“The prisoner, the guards.....”  
“Oh Elbereth! Where is our group? Caradhil, help me!”

And there is no time to think, only to react, to arm, to call out their group and another, to go out, to fight, to join that glorious dance of battle. For Caradhil knows his prince, he knows his skill, his pride, and to be beside him in this – it is a joy. A fierce joy, a delight none who is not a warrior could understand. Yet for them, they are elves, it is indeed a dance, with grace, with song, with perfect understanding of each other’s thoughts and moves.

Until that moment, that awful moment, when he realises that the chance of war has spun his prince away from him, and he must fight on, concentrating on his part in the dance and trusting that his prince’s skill will keep him safe until he can find him again.

 

 

As the last of the orcs is despatched, Caradhil turns, searching desperately through the trees, 

“Pull back,” he calls, “they are gone, pull back to the Halls, and gather the fallen as we go.” He closes his eyes for a moment, and thinks, Valar do not do this to me. Please. I cannot, I cannot bear it.

He continues, greeting those he passes, touching ears, pleased at each face he recognises, but still – where is that one he wishes to see? Where is his prince? He cannot look at the bodies, he cannot. He scans the elves about him for that golden hair, but on such a night, no moon, no stars – there is no tell-tale shine. 

At last he finds him, sitting on the ground, holding the body of one of the elves of their group, and Caradhil realises this must be one of tonight’s guards. Dead. But in his relief, Caradhil does not stop to recognise her, does not care. He reaches down to his prince’s ears, and touches, kneeling beside him.

“Oh my sweet prince,” he says, “I could not find you. I feared you lost. And you are not.”

Legolas returns the gesture, and looks up at him,

“No. I am not. You are not. But – oh Caradhil – so many dead. And these – they are our group. We – we were drinking. Elbereth help us, we were drinking and laughing while they – they were fighting and dying here.”

Caradhil is silent. Looking now at the faces of those known to him, he knows grief for them – and yet in his heart he admits that there is mostly relief that his prince is not among those dead.

“Come,” he says, “the night is not over, the orcs may yet return. I have sent all back to the Halls, and we must follow – you would not have your father worry for you.”

And as he speaks, he curses himself in his mind. Of all the things to say.

“No,” his prince answers, but it is the voice of that elfling again, “no, Ada will not worry for me. At least, he will only wonder that I am late with news of my failure and blame me for not wishing to face him.”

Caradhil decides that there are truths spoken when wine and the shock of battle coincide that are best not heard, and answers only,

“Come, my prince, we need to take these last fallen in for their honour.”

 

 

When they arrive back at the Halls, the tale has been told. The King is there, and greets Caradhil formally yet kindly; he is pleased another warrior has returned. He speaks praise of the dead.

Caradhil begins to make his way to his own chamber, he needs to wash, and then – then he will seek out whatever of his group he can, for he is sore in need of combing. But he waits – there is something unfinished between himself and his prince – and hears his King turn to his prince and say,

“Last. So many dead. So many of your group. Your prisoner escaped. And you last in.”

There is a silence, and Caradhil wonders what meaning his King has – what meaning his prince hears.

“Well? Have you no word for me?” the voice is cold as ever, cold with control, with some fierce emotion held in check.

“I am sorry, my lord King,” and without looking Caradhil can see the downturned eyes, the flush, “I have failed you again. I – I would crave your pardon, I – my lord King – give me leave to go to my chamber, I must put myself in order, and see my group.”

The King does not speak, and Caradhil, turned to look now, sees that gesture of dismissal. Sees his prince walk slowly away, his head bowed. Sees his King look after him, and wonders what the look in his eyes means.

One thing is certain, it means no good to any Silvan caught watching. Swiftly he goes to his chamber and washes away the dirt of battle, wondering all the while how his prince is, and what can now be between them. He reminds himself, he is Caradhil, nothing has changed, his prince will not refuse his comb – he decides to seek out his prince, read in his face what he desires of him.

And so he finds himself at the door of Legolas’ chamber.

“My prince,” he ventures, “will you comb tonight?” and as his prince comes towards him, he sees again that elfling, those hurt eyes, that ache he never could hide, and he thinks, no, not like this. If I must wait another age, I would rather that than like this. If this is love, it must be between equals, or it is nothing. I will not have him come to me for what he cannot find in his father’s eyes. I will not have our combing alone together like that, for all he was for long years as an elfling to me.

It seems that something of the same thought runs through the other’s mind, for he answers,

“I will comb. But – tonight Caradhil, we must be with our group, we must be together, mourn together, ” hesitantly he looks down and then back, eyes meet, and he adds, “but – there will be other nights. Will there not?” 

Caradhil hears the unspoken plea, and answers, 

“Always. My prince, we are elves. There are always other nights. Tonight – tonight is for the group.” And he thinks to say, “Today – today was for us.”

And the smile that rewards him is one he must live on for longer than he expects.

For next day – next day, everything changes.


	11. Chapter 11

The morning after the orc attack, Caradhil wakes from reverie early, surrounded by his group. In their grief, they had found comfort in each others’ hands, combs, voices, they raised the mourning song in honour of their dead, they drifted into dreams together. He looks about him, and sees all are still at rest – sees that there is no spread of golden hair among the colours of the autumn forest, feels there is no elfling – for elfling he was again last night – no elfling curled against him.

Gently, carefully, for he would not disturb those who need this peace, he rises and leaves, hoping to find his prince, hoping – he is not in truth sure for what he hopes. He makes his way through the sleeping Halls, and stops as he hears voices.

“........this was your task, your prisoner. I do not blame you, it is no more than I expected of you.”

“Ada, my lord King, I – how could I have known? I – I am sorry. I – I grieve for the dead – they were my group.”

“You grieve for the losses your group suffered?” Caradhil hears the swish of robes as his King paces the floor, “You dare speak to me of grief? You know nothing of grief. I do not care to hear of your so-called grief.” There is a pause, and Caradhil wonders whether he should leave – but he is an elf. The temptation to listen, to know more, is too much. His King continues, in a low, patient voice,

“I do not blame you. If any deserve blame it is I for entrusting such a task to one whose friend so recently lost many more prisoners from the very cells of my palace,” Caradhil wonders at the words, at the callous disregard for mourning – and wonders whether the incident with the dwarves will ever be something that can be forgotten, “I order you no punishment – save to go to Imladris, to take the news of your failure to the Lord Elrond, and Mithrandir. Doubtless their seeming concern, their pity will shame even you, most foolish of my sons.”

“My lord King, I will of course do as you command. When would you have me leave?”

Caradhil can almost feel the King’s disdainful look, the raised eyebrow,

“When I command something I expect it done. You will ready yourself and be gone within the hour.” 

“I – my lord King – may I have your leave to take some – one – of my group with me?”

There is a silence as the King, Caradhil assumes, looks at his son,

“A companion? Do you think me so blind as not to know of whom you speak? You will not arrive with him leading you by the hand. You will travel alone. You will go faster, be safer.” That swish of robes again, “And you will learn that to be royal is to be alone. You will learn to trust none but yourself, to rely on none but yourself. Too long have you leaned upon him, hiding your weakness behind his strength.”

Caradhil slips away – he knows that condition was made for him, he does not wish his King to find him here. Clearly he has been walking a thin line.

Now, now there is little time – now he must find his prince’s weapons, have his horse prepared, ensure he has clothing, maps, food – Caradhil is making a list in his head, planning. Holding onto the practicalities. Pushing away the hurt, the pain that months of separation will bring. Holding instead to the thought – the thought that his prince asked for him. For one only he said. And for two elves to travel thus – that would be to be combmates. Hold to that joy, Caradhil. 

All the while he is busy, Caradhil is thinking. Thinking and wondering what his prince meant, what he should now do – whether to pretend he did not hear, whether to offer to go with him in his King’s despite, whether to vow to wait.

But, when he finds his prince, when he sees him, when he feels the relief as he shows all is prepared, he finds he can do none of these things.

“My prince,” he says, “Legolas, my dearest of elves, I – I would go with you – if you ask me, I will. But – you need me not,” he strokes his hand across those ears, brushes that hair away, “I cannot lie to you. I heard your father’s words – and still I will come if you ask it. You know, you have always known, you have but to stretch out your hand and I will come with you, serve you, protect and care for you – my elfling. But – you need me not.” Caradhil pauses, “go, enjoy your freedom, do not take on your shoulders more guilt than you deserve – and remember, any blame you give yourself, you give me also.” For he knows his prince – and he knows the words that will absolve him.

Legolas looks at him, and touching his ears in return, answers,

“I do not ask it of you. I – I will not be long away, I – I will rejoin my group – I will bring my comb back to you.”

“And when you do, my prince, I will see you dance. I will be here, and I will see you dance with all the joy there is in you.”

They smile into each others’ eyes, and Caradhil knows this prince will return no elfling, knows whatever happens, it will happen at last between equals. He thinks to add,

“Take what comfort there is on the way. A used comb tells no tales. Fare you well, my prince.”

His prince mounts his horse, and Caradhil for a moment remembers a ride given long ago, an elfling who was so afraid – gone, transformed into this grace, this creature as skilled and at one with his horse as any could hope an elf to be. With a word, he turns its head towards the Forest Road, and rides away.

Caradhil stands, watching, and is rewarded – before he is out of sight, Legolas looks back, just once, and raises his hand in farewell. The golden hair catches the morning sun, and he is gone.

Caradhil sighs, and wipes his hand over his eyes, but he has not the heart to return indoors, he wishes for the peace of the Forest. 

He does not see his King watching, watching his son ride away with no blessing, watching a more impassioned farewell to a Silvan hunter than to his Ada.

 

 

Thranduil watches his son ride away, holding to his elven mask, his glamour to conceal his feelings. Four sons, four sons have I watched come to adulthood, he thinks, and what have I now, in this which I fear may be our people’s time of greatest need? 

One son – dead. Most beloved, most treasured. Dead. Choked on his own blood, coughed out his life on the plains of Dagorlad. Oh my Thalion. Most well-named, truly you were dauntless. You were my golden child, my beloved, my princeling. You had always love and trust for your Ada. 

Your Ada, who watched you die and could do nothing.

Two sons I have in the north of this wood, he thinks, two sons I also cherished, loved, played with, combed in their infancy. Two sons whose trust died with their brother on those cursed plains. Two sons whose love for me faltered as mine for them became hidden in my grief and anger when I lost my wife.

Two sons who our people do not love, and I know not why. I know not what words they have spoken, what perceived crimes they have committed. But – our Silvans do not love them.

Two sons who I can see are not overly clever, nor cunning, nor wise.   
Two sons who love each other, trust each other. Who are inseparable.

Two sons I do not know anymore. He sighs.

Then, this youngest. This new leaf, who was to mend all. 

Instead – he broke it.

Tore my wife, my love from me.

Tore the mother from my other sons.

Even now, he divides my people. Even now, there are some elves in this wood who would question whether their loyalty is to me or to him.

Wouldn’t they, Caradhil? And although he knows he has allowed this, relied on this, made use of this – now he is not sad to be breaking it.

I told you long ago, Caradhil, I will have no Silvan elf gifting my son, courting my son, combing alone with my son. I will do all in my power to prevent such a vow. And I am Thranduil. In this Forest, I have much power.

Be glad for the escape of this prisoner, Caradhil. Be glad I have an errand for this son of mine.

An errand which will surely bring him to adulthood. 

Perhaps when he returns, he will be a son I can speak to, a son to make my heart proud.

A son who would come to me for comfort after battle, not to you. A son who would hear the words I mean, not the words I say.

Your arms will not stay empty, your comb will be well-used. You will not grieve for long. Not Caradhil.

And if my son fancies himself hurt – perhaps he will listen to his Ada. Perhaps he will accept that this marriage, this marriage I propose between him and the daughter of Elrond – this would bring him joy. As it would bring me joy, to see him wed, to see elflings again. To – to share perhaps some of my rule, that I might – I might share some of his joy in them. 

I know – I know I have not been as good an Ada to him as I should. Thranduil stares unseeingly into the Forest, but – if he marries this – this Luthien come again – and how, how when he sees her can he continue to deny the attraction – I saw Luthien, I can only imagine the beauty of this peredhel, but she must be passing fair – surely even this foolish son will not say he will have none of her – he will not continue this desire for a red-haired warrior. If he marries her – if there are elflings – if I have him at my side, learning to rule – I will have a chance to know him, and – to know his elflings.

I will have the chance to leave this middle-earth. To rejoin my love. To sail West.

Oh my Calenmiril. I have waited so long. 

Thranduil does not realise he has covered his face, he does not realise he stands as though wounded.

If I come to you – will you be able to see me again, to hold me, as you could not see or hold me, so grieved you were?

If I bring you news of your three sons – of your sons’ children?

Will you love me, trust me, need me as you once did?

Will you hold me again?

Will you comb me – for I long for your hands – I have been alone so long? I cannot share with another what is yours. I – I cannot even bear to touch my sons. 

Oh my Calenmiril.

I dream you came back. I dream you sail back to me, healed, I dream you come to me, to our Forest. I dream you are beside me at last, your hands in my hair, your breath against my ear.

I wake, and I am the King. 

Alone.

He breathes, slowly, and comes back to himself. None should see the King like this.

The King is all-powerful. 

His elves must trust him.

Whatever the cost, he will protect his elves.


	12. Chapter 12

With his prince gone, Caradhil finds time hangs heavy on his hands. He tells himself it will not be long, he is an elf – he is supposed to be good at waiting.

It cannot be far to Imladris. He does not know. He has never left the Forest except to go down the River to Esgaroth, to Dale, to Erebor. He knows little of the wider world.

He searches out maps, he finds one who can explain them to him. He asks – how long? And finds that none can tell him. Journeys, it seems, can take longer or shorter than usual. None know whether his prince will hurry – which in his heart he hopes – or tarry – which he fears. He supposes it will depend whether his prince is driven by fear of the anger of the lord King, or – or whatever this between them is. 

He still, even in his own heart, cannot call it love. He does not know. He had always thought – all the songs and tales have told him – that when love comes, when your One is there – you will know. But – he has not the certainty. He just knows he misses his prince, that life seems to be without its purpose – no, not its purpose – but – without that golden sheen. And he winces even at the words in his head – this is not Caradhil. Caradhil does not feel this way.

But he does.

And for all he cannot call it love, he does not know what it is. 

 

The last days of summer pass, autumn begins, draws on. Caradhil is still at the Halls – for which he is grateful, as it means he will have first news of his prince – but part of him wonders if a patrol would be busier, less conducive to this – this moping.

The leaves are fallen when messengers come. Elves. Noldor. It is a thing almost unheard of in this age of the world that Noldor should come to the court of Thranduil. They are received by the King alone. Some agreement is made, and they are sent on their way. None are encouraged to speak to them.

And in the Halls of Thranduil, when one knows one has recently walked a very thin line, one does nothing the King does not encourage.

 

Only days after the Noldor are gone, Caradhil receives a summons to see the King. He cannot but remember another summons, another time when his care for his prince overthrew his care for himself, and he resolves to do nothing so rash. The feel of the King’s sword at his throat, the humiliation of being on his knees in such a way, has not been forgotten.

Caradhil enters the throne room. He stands, waiting for his King to speak. After a moment, he wonders if he should kneel – better to kneel in homage than at knifepoint, but as he thinks this, the King turns and with that elegant economy makes the gesture which means stay standing.

“Finbonaurion, I find I have news which concerns you.”

Caradhil has no idea what this can be. He stands, waiting, and watches the King pace. Whatever it is, this has not made his King happy, and Caradhil is worried.

“Indeed, I find I – I have perhaps misjudged you.”

This is not reassuring.

“Doubtless you know I received Noldor messengers here not long ago. Do not lie, you are an elf, this is a realm of elves, of Silvans – of course you know.” He pauses, and for an instant, Caradhil is granted a glimpse of the elf hidden within the King, as he looks into the distance of his hall, “they came from Imladris. They brought news of my son.”

Caradhil is becoming more worried. One does not send messengers with news of one who is returning soon. Oh my prince, he thinks, where are you?

“My son. It seems – and if I hear so much as a word breathed of this I will know from whence it came, Caradhil – it seems my son is not returning to our Forest. He – is joining some quest. Some scheme of that peredhel Elrond. That peredhel who has sons, foster sons, a daughter of his own – but no, he sends my son. My foolish son.” 

There is another pause, were the elf in front of him any but this, Caradhil would say he was trying to calm himself, to keep his grief in check. But this is Thranduil, King. And such a thought is not possible.

“I tell you this, because I see you watch the road, I see you hope for his return. He will not return. Let your heart begin to understand. My son will not return. This quest is a fool’s hope. My son is too reckless to survive such a thing. It seems I was mistaken in you. Had I sent you with him, I would now not fear for him, alone among not-elves.”

Caradhil is reeling. His prince. Gone. Unlike to return. He will not believe he will not return – he cannot. Gone alone among not-elves. 

His King – his King admitting he was wrong. 

Caradhil’s world trembles.

“I – my lord King – I – I thank you for this news. I – I wish I had gone with him. I,” his voice cracks, “I offered to. He would not take me. He – oh Valar help me – I told him he was no elfling, he did not need me. I – oh sweet Elbereth, my sweet prince – I told him to enjoy his freedom.” Forgetting court manners, he turns away and covering his face with his hands, sinks to the ground.

There are swift footsteps, a hand in his hair, he is hoisted to his feet again, and the King speaks, low and hard from close beside him,

“Do not you dare fade, Caradhil. It is a self-indulgence. This kingdom cannot afford to lose any fighter at a time like this. Days are coming where our realm will be fighting for its life. I shall need you, and your group. Do not you dare give way to grief.” He shakes him, as a fox shakes a rabbit, “I will have no grief for my son. I warn you he will not return – but he is not lost to us yet. Should he come home, beyond all count of hope – would you have him know you had no faith in him? Do not you dare fail him now.”

The words, harsh though they are, reach Caradhil where perhaps kinder words would not. Time enough to grieve when all is lost indeed, now – now is the time to hold on, to wait, to fight, to ensure there is something for his prince to return to. 

He must obey his King. His King who knows all, his King who he trusts above all others.

After a time, he finds he can meet the King’s eye, he can bow, he can even speak,

“My lord King, I thank you again for this news. I will serve you as ever I have done, I am your elf.”

And when the gesture to leave is given, Caradhil goes, he holds himself together until he reaches the archery range and then he shoots, over and over until his body is finally exhausted, until his mind is blank, until he can fall into reverie with no need for combing this night.

 

The months pass. Caradhil finds he is once again the leader of their group, and he is glad to be busy. Glad to be tired at the end of the day, though he combs with the group. He is Caradhil, this is what he does.

Already a close, tightly knit group, already bound by combing, war, and love of their prince, since the escape of the prisoner they have become even closer. They feel they have much to prove, honour to redeem.

They do not speak of their prince – except to say that when he returns all will be well again. Caradhil wonders how much any of them know – elves do not keep secrets well, and although he has never spoken of the King’s words, he doubts he was the only one to hear them.

Their King has them all working hard, he must know more than they do – he is preparing for some war. They do not know, they do not wish to know – that, after all, is why they have a King.

As the spring approaches, the news from outside the Forest is not good. Without anything being said, they all begin to feel as though they are being rushed headlong towards some crisis.

Caradhil thinks of his prince, and wonders where in this wide world he is, what is he doing? Is he safe? Again and again, he tells himself his prince is an excellent fighter with bow and knife, he rides well, he has many skills.

Again and again he sees that small elfling, lost and lonely, and his heart aches at the thought of his prince out there, among not-elves, with none to comb him.

Again and again, he wishes he had gone with his prince. Even if they had been parted at Imladris, at least he would know who his prince is with, who will have a care for one so inexperienced. For Caradhil knows his prince has barely left the Forest before, he knows how little of the world he has seen. How trusting he can be. How ready to seek – friendship – where there is none. He remembers that elfling offering his comb to brothers who cared not, who struck him, who must have turned him away so many times – and he worries.

 

 

At last they are at open war. After so long, it is almost a relief when the orcs are sighted on their borders. It is almost a joy to go out and fight. Life becomes merely fighting, repairing weapons, collecting new arrows made by those who cannot fight, eating and going out to fight once more.

Fighting loses its joy, there is no dance to it anymore. It is simply what they do. Day after day. And at each brief respite it is Caradhil’s responsibility to check on his group. And all too often, there is one less when they gather to touch ears, to comb however briefly. Caradhil notes the losses, but does not let himself, or others, grieve. Now is not the time for grief, he tells them, now is the time to fight on. Now is the time for his group to stay in the thick of the fighting, to redeem their honour, to count not the cost if they regain the pride they lost last summer.

There comes a day when the force ranged against them seems greater and stronger than ever. Caradhil sees his group falling around him, he sees other groups in worse straits. He knows he should rally them, but – he cannot. He is tired. He has no more in him, and looking at the faces about him, he can see they are the same. They have lost. There is no more hope. They will die, and the Forest will burn.

And at this moment, he hears a voice, a voice he has known his whole life, yet never before has he heard it raised like this,

“My elves, you will fight. You will fight beside me. You will fight for me, as I fight for you. There may yet be a day when we fade, when we fail, when our Forest burns and all that we are is forgotten – but it is not this day.”

And he sees his King, and he, like all the others, finds that he does have more in him. For his King he does. For his King, anyone would. Any would fight for this King, this beautiful vision of power, of anger, of – of all that an elf should be. Caradhil is proud to fight for such a one, proud to serve, Caradhil knows he, and all wood-elves would gladly die for their King.

And the orcs are driven off. Gone. Squealing and running. They are gone.

But – when they come to find each other – oh the pity of it – the grief – their group – they are but seven. As they stand together, touching ears, they speak of those who are lost, they try to account for where and how, they raise the mourning song, they pour out their losses to the stars.

As though that ever helped.

 

 

So. An agreement has been made. The Forest will be divided, the southern part to the Galadhrim of Lorien, the middle to the Beornings and woodmen, the north for them. 

If their King has agreed it, it must be well.

None thinks of the princes. The elder two – away in the north – they have played little part in this war. Whether because their father would spare them, or for some other reason the group does not know. Does not wish to. They are not popular, those elder princes, not with this group for their lack of love to their young brother, not with others for – who knows what reason. Perhaps their constant awareness of Sindar superiority without the ability and love that redeem their father – certainly this does not help. Perhaps there is more.

None grieves at this division of the Forest, none cares that these princes will still have no realm.

Caradhil is just pleased he will not have to spend time with the Galadhrim. They think themselves quite amazingly superior.

He did not like the way they spoke of his prince. To hear that they had seen him, that he had been in good health – that was the best news he could have hoped for. That he had combed with them – Caradhil can admit in the privacy of his own heart that he is jealous – unreasonably, for nothing stops him combing with those around him, and his last words to his prince were to enjoy his freedom, to take what comfort offered on the journey, that used combs tell no tales.

Still. He does not like the idea of his prince combing with these Galadhrim. They – they are too blond. What if that felt right, felt better, what if – he is Sindar – what if he discovers he no longer wishes to live among Silvans?

As for the other – the hints of a disreputable friendship – of a closeness with – not just a mortal, but – a Naug – that was clearly malicious lies. His prince is not so foolish. 

The King would have much to say of that.

Caradhil will not let such words bother him.

He will not.

His prince will be home soon. And – and he will be in great need of combing. 

Caradhil knows, how he knows, he is skilled with his comb. And he will have all the evenings of his life to use that skill on that golden hair.

Surely his prince will be home soon.

He reminds himself, he is an elf. He can wait.

Some things are worth waiting for.

 

 

Thranduil sighs, alone he can allow himself the luxury of sadness, of grief, of remorse, of longing for something he can no longer have. Alone he can admit that this victory is hard-bought, and the tiredness has exposed the aches in his heart. 

And so my people are safe. Our Forest safe. Paid for, parts handed over to Galadhrim, to Men in recompense for help in time of need.  
Relinquished as I find I have but one son I can think of as heir. What use have my other sons been in these days? 

How I mourn my Thalion. He would not have left my side. Had I not failed him, had I not let him die, I would have had him here with me.

I would also have had my love, her skill, her battle-joy at my side. Then these days would truly have been glorious. 

Then would this victory taste sweet.

Oh my Calenmiril. I need you so. 

I remember those wars we fought together, that battle when we first met at the gates of Moria. I remember so well. I remember your insistence that you would slay more orcs than I, I remember your delight when you won that wager.

I remember the forfeit you demanded. 

Oh my Calenmiril. 

We were good together once.

And then I failed you too. I let our son die, I could not comfort you, I foisted an unwanted child on you. Why? Why did I do such a thing? How could I hope to replace our Thalion? How could I hope a daughter would set things right?

Perhaps she would have. But we had no girl-child, no sweet elfling to charm and make us smile.

We had a son. A son who broke your heart, sent you from me.

A son I love but have never touched. A son I left my Silvans to raise. A son I do not know. 

Another son I failed. 

I hope I have still this son. I have no word from him.

They tell me he was alive, they tell me he was well when he passed through their land. Their safe haven, protected by spells, by Noldor cunning, by a Ring of power. Protected, it seems to me, by the blood of my people.

But where is he now?

If this – this Quest – is over – where is my son?

Why does he not return?

He loves his Forest. Surely.

He will come back.

He will come back to me.

Thranduil sighs, and admits in his heart, in the silence of his loneliness, that he knows what will call his Legolas back; he will come back to his Forest, to his Silvan.

He is my son.

Where is my son?


	13. Chapter 13

At last. At last their prince is home. Caradhil hears the news, and is quick to find the other survivors of their group – there are not many, but their honour is regained, and the cost, though high, was gladly paid by them all.

They do not see him ride in, they do not have chance to speak with him, but they are in the Hall when he enters, when he approaches the King.

“My lord King,” he says, kneeling, and Caradhil wonders if he is the only one to be saddened by this formality, “I am returned, and I beg your forgiveness for my long absence. I – I delivered your message to the lord of Rivendell, to Mithrandir, and – and at that time I found that the creature we – I – had lost was of more importance than we knew. I – I therefore deemed it best for the honour of our land, our people, that I go, as the lord Elrond suggested, as part of the fellowship to destroy this Ring. Doubtless you have heard the outcome, and – and I hope my actions have not displeased you too much? I – I have ventured to agree that we might send elves to help in the remaking of Gondor, and the renewing of the fair land of Ithilien – I – I hoped you would be pleased to build new ties with other lands?” 

There is silence. The King raises one eyebrow, moves his hand in a gesture all know to mean, continue. The prince swallows, Caradhil sees him drop his eyes and that flush begin,

“My lord King, I – I have heard – the lord Celeborn was kind enough to reassure me of your great victory here when I saw him in Gondor at the wedding of his granddaughter to their new king. I – I – my heart was greatly eased to know all well in my home.” He pauses, and raises his eyes, “My lord? – my lord? – I – I have not disgraced you. I – I would hear your thoughts?”

There is another silence. The King stands. He does not offer his hands, he does not gesture to the kneeling elf to rise, he does not change expression.

“My thoughts? It is rather late in the day, late in the year to ask for my thoughts. I sent you on a simple errand. You, for reasons I do not ask, decided that instead of obeying my command, instead of returning to this realm, this realm which needed every one of its warriors, this realm which so nearly was not here for you to return to, instead of this, you went off on some fools’ quest. You expect me to believe that in all Imladris, there was no more suitable elf than you? No more skilled warrior? No more powerful elf-lord? No more learned healer?” he pauses, that eyebrow raised in disbelief, “lord Elrond’s realm must indeed be failing.”

There is another silence, but before his son can begin to speak, the King continues,

“And, even if you were so needed – I have heard you did not stay to the end of this journey. You let the halflings go alone into the Black Land. You left them at the mercy of this creature whose escape so undermined our reputation. You went off in the company of a Man – and – a Naug.”

Another silence. Caradhil looks at his prince, sees something in his face he does not understand, an anger he had not expected – but it is fleeting, and soon passes, replaced by the defeated look that is more familiar.

“You mention the wedding of the new King of Gondor. Why need you stay for that? What kept you? Let us suppose, for one moment, that this quest needed you, that this diversion from the quest was worthwhile – once the enemy was defeated – what kept you away so long? That defeat was in March. It is now October. Do not try to deceive me with talk of ties with other lands. You do not care for the business of kingship, you have never cared. You did not return as soon as you could. You returned when there was no more excuse not to.” The King’s expression of disdain as he circles his kneeling son does not change, “Do not now look for great welcome, and feasting. This realm has no such wealth – for now. I suggest you take yourself from my presence, as is always your preference, go to your chamber, or find your erstwhile companions. It matters not to me. Should I have need of you, I will send for you. Should I think of a simple enough task, a clear enough command that you can obey without questioning.” And the King gestures in dismissal as he returns to his throne.

The assembled elves do not know quite where to look, what to do. They had hoped to hear of this journey, of other lands, of battles fought and won. They had hoped for rejoicing – this land has had precious little joy in the last year, they hoped for some now at this wanderer’s return. Instead – they turn away from the pain in front of them, they return to their usual talk – what else can they do?

Caradhil, even as his group clusters around him, cannot but continue to look at his prince, and he sees the eyes raised once more, fixed on the King, sees the lips form a word, hears though it is unspoken the voice of a lost elfling begging ‘Ada, please, please. Just once.’ And he wishes he could give comfort – but what can he do? 

His prince has not sent for him. He has not looked for him. He has not seen him. 

Did that day never happen?

Has he been waiting all this time for nothing?

Caradhil tells himself it is a good thing he was never so foolish as to call it love.

As he watches, the prince rises, and walks away. Head held high, back straight, eyes cold – and he thinks, I did that anyway, I gave him that confidence, that control all those years ago. When they can, his group leave the Hall, and make for the prince’s chambers. They wish him to know they are pleased to see him, that they have missed him, but when they knock, there is silence.

They wait. They wonder if the prince has gone elsewhere, but a small noise inside tells them he has not. Caradhil knocks again, and speaks,

“My prince, Legolas, your group is here. We – we have missed you. We will go if that is what you want – but – we would comb with you tonight?” he pauses to see if there is any reply, but there is not, “my prince, we are glad to see you safe home.”

They exchange looks and gradually drift away. Caradhil waits longest, but realises that the door will not open – and perhaps the sounds he can hear are not meant for any ears. No prince wishes to be heard so desolate.

 

 

Days pass, and their prince does not come for combing. They see him, he is out of his chamber, he is eating though not well, he is visiting his horse though not riding, he is walking the Forest paths though not joyfully, he is practising his archery though he needs it not. He is not speaking. He is barely singing. He is not combing. 

He is not dancing. He will never now dance as Caradhil once thought he would. He will never now be any of those things Caradhil dreamed he could be – he will never be a king, but that was clear long ago. He will never be joyous it seems, never be golden.

This cannot be ignored. Caradhil knows what he feels is not love, he will not let it be love, he does not love, he is Caradhil – but – this is his prince, his elfling. His prince needs him, even when he knows not that he does.

Caradhil finds him, as if by chance, sharing an apple as Caradhil remembers teaching that elfling so long ago, but now with this new horse, this horse from the lands of Men who has carried him so far. He decides this is not the place to ask why his prince is weeping, he is not sure his prince even knows, and so he accompanies him from the stables to his chamber, and there, away from others, he says,

“My prince, why do you not comb with us? We have missed you long. We – we fear you are angry, that we have let you down, and we know not how?” he leans on the door as he speaks, making it clear he will not leave without some kind of answer. It is not fair, he knows, to pretend so, but – if he were to say, why do you grieve, why shut yourself away from us – he would be less likely to gain a hearing. Besides, there is truth in what he says. A little.

His prince sighs, his back turned. 

“I cannot. I – I – Caradhil, I have lost my comb. I – I am not angry. I – I am – exhausted.” He runs his hand through his hair, feeling his braids, and wincing, though Caradhil cannot guess why, “exhausted as no elf should be.”

Even as the words sting, even as he realises his prince has forgotten who gave him the comb, who bought it, and how he paid, and what he risked, Caradhil finds his own hurt is nothing in the face of this pain, this dreadful grief. This that he feels is not love – but it is so strong in him, this need to protect, to comfort, no wonder he was nearly mistaken. At this moment all he can see, all he can think of is his prince, his elfling.

Caradhil goes to him, his heart wrung, and strokes those ears, then, in a gesture he remembers from his days among Men, pulls the younger elf to him, turns him and holds him against his front, one arm around him, one hand still stroking at an ear-tip. For a moment the other relaxes into the – what was the word – hug – but then he shivers and pulls away, cold and closed once more. Caradhil finds himself thinking in truth the words he had used – why are you so angry with me – but says,

“A comb can be found, it was a long while, a long journey, dangerous times – my prince, things get lost, nothing lasts forever – “ he is going to say more, but,

“No, nothing. However much one wishes it, nothing lasts forever.”   
And there is a sadness in the voice which tells him they are no longer talking of combs. Then Legolas pulls himself straight again, “can you find me a comb? I – I would comb with you – all of you – again, if you would have me?”

So. There is no question of having his prince to himself. That day – that golden day – never happened. Is forgotten. Well, he tells himself, Caradhil, if you let an elfling go, hoping an elf will come back – sometimes they do not. Not to your comb, your arms. He has thought as much. It is a good thing this was not love. Poor, poor little elfling, he is – broken somehow. What has happened? What have those mortals, those Noldor, those Galadhrim done to him? More than ever, he sees how wise his King is, to keep their borders closed.

Well, Caradhil thinks, even if he cannot speak of it, if I can solve the practical problem and get him combing again – it must help. Surely. 

“Of course, my prince, we miss you. I will find you a comb, and leave it here that you may bring it tonight. None will ask – or even notice – it is not your own. Or care.” He hesitates, “Legolas, remember – you are much to us. And to our lord King – remember, I know you remember, his words to you many years ago, he loves you in his way. He – he is not – he has never been as other fathers.” He waits, but there is no answering sign from the other, still staring blindly at the window, so he leaves as he is desired to do. I did not lie, he thinks, at least, if I did – it was no more than a repetition of an old lie, told years ago, and – and Valar understand, what else can I do for him? For either of them, he admits to himself. I cannot bear to see my prince and my King so sundered. And if in his mind he remembers a different Thranduil, one who loved and rejoiced in his sons even as Caradhil’s Ada rejoiced in him, before they marched away to the plains of Dagorlad – he has had many years of practice at hiding the thought from himself.

 

 

It is not that evening, but it is not many days hence that Legolas comes to them, comb in hand, seeking that comfort that the touch of others gives. Probably he would rather slip into his old place, probably he would rather no mention of his time away – but they are elves. They cannot help it, they must welcome him, must touch his ears, hold him, pass him between them; all need to comb and be combed by him to know he is here, he is not lost, he is theirs again. 

Yet – he is not. There is something wrong. All of them feel it, none of them can say what it is, but – he is not truly one of them. There is a reserve, a hesitancy – almost as if he has forgotten how to comb. His voice rises with theirs in song – yet – there is a break in it, and Caradhil cannot find a pattern to why. He does not slip into reverie with them – he leaves, quietly, as some are drifting off, slipping away to be alone. Something is not right, and none of them know what.

 

They find they have plenty of chance to discuss it. Plenty of evenings that their prince does not come for combing – and that is odd. Most unlike any elf, but particularly this one, for whom combing has for so long been so important, so long desired. Caradhil cannot think what has happened to change him so, none of them can. 

One evening, on his way to their groups meeting place, he obeys an impulse, and goes to Legolas’ chambers, thinking to persuade him to join them – for in his experience there is no problem, no sadness that is not eased by the comfort of others’ hands. There is no answer when he taps at the door, so, foolishly he later thinks, he gently opens it. And after a glance inside, shuts it again, and leans there for an instant, trying to understand what he has seen. 

Caradhil is no fool, nor is he an innocent. He has known for many years that self-combing is not confined only to elflings, but – he had assumed it was only for those who had no group, who were unhappy within their group. So what does this say for his group, that their beloved prince, who they care for so, would rather comb himself into reverie alone, than join them? That he would rather lie under just a sheet when the palace is too hot (too hot, in mid-winter? he closes that thought, he does not know where it can go, he is an elf) than join them in the Forest? That the words of the song he does not even know he is singing are in Westron not their own language – and the tune is one he must have learnt away from them, and has not shared in all these weeks?

Caradhil is hurt. He had thought they were friends, had thought his prince understood how much they cared for him. Obviously not. Well, if that is how it is, that is how it is. He goes, and resolves not to return. He is not wanted. They are not wanted. 

Not by their prince. 

Perhaps their King will have use for them – although at the moment he seems to have forgotten their group. 

 

 

Winter passes, and for all his hurt, for all that he tells himself he will not go looking for one who has rejected their group, Caradhil cannot help but notice the decline in his prince. Not his prince, he reminds his thoughts – but the habit of years dies hard. It has been – how long – he cannot remember – so many years that he has cared for this prince, this son of his King, he cannot turn away now. Now, when he sees in those eyes something like the loneliness, the hurt that he remembers in that elfling so long ago, he cannot turn away – much as he would like to.

He talks with the group.

“Our prince,” he says, ignoring the part of himself, the look in all their eyes that says ‘is he our prince, he seems not to wish anything from us’, “our prince is not well. Look at him. He is fading. Look at his hair, his skin, his eyes. Listen to his song – if you can – it is faint, it is sad. If we do nothing – we will lose him. He will die. What does the group suggest?”

“Should he go West?”  
“Will not his father arrange matters?”  
“What can we do?”  
“He wants nothing from us.”  
“He does not come to us.”  
“Is he still ours?”

Then, one says,  
“Did he not speak of returning to the lands of Men?”

They look at each other, hands stilled, and it is Caradhil who voices their thoughts,  
“He is in no state to travel alone. He knows not in what land he walks. He – he does not even remember he spoke thus.” And finds he must say, “we will have to take him. Will the group do this? Can we leave our Forest?”

“Leave?”  
“Leave now?”  
“Leave so soon after the battle won?”  
“Leave and – and come back when?”  
“Will we come back?”  
“Must we?”

Caradhil sighs, and foresees a long night of persuading,  
“We must. He will die else. Would the group not ask it for themselves? He is our prince, our Legolas. Who will care for him if we do not?”

“His father.”

A look is enough to answer that. They all know how things are. 

And by morning, agreement has been reached among the group. Caradhil will speak to Legolas, and, if this is what he wishes, the group will take him to whatever this city and then this ‘fair land’ are. They will speak to those they are close to once they have the prince’s agreement – and hope that none must be parted from those they love. And that there are trees in this new place.

 

 

Caradhil finds his prince in his chambers, as he expected. Not busy, not singing, not in reverie, just – sitting. Waiting. Waiting for – Caradhil is not sure what. Suddenly a new fear strikes him, and,

“Legolas,” he begins, “we are worried about you. You have not been yourself since your return. We know that you have heard the call of the sea. We fear that you plan to sail?”

“Plan?” the quiet answer comes, so sad, so dispirited, “No, I do not plan anything. Though I cannot say I would not board were it possible.”

“But we would not lose you again so soon.” He tries desperately, “Yet we have not the longing and will not come West. Is there nothing to keep you here awhile?”

A sigh. “Here? In this new land of Eryn Lasgalen – so like to the old land of Mirkwood? No. There is nothing that I would stay for. And I am surprised you ask it, after the losses our troop suffered from my decisions.”

And Caradhil begins to understand a little why this dear prince has been so apart, so unable to comb with them. Perhaps they should have spoken – but he did not ask. He did not tell them how he felt, how he perceived the past,

“They were not yours alone,” he says, remembering those times, and adds, “Nothing ever was, save the blame. We were glad you were elsewhere, even when we heard where you had gone, for I think those times would have been no safer for you here,” he pauses, thinking, “but Legolas, did you not speak, when first you returned, of promises you had made to friends far away?”

And sees that this has reached him. This means something. Those eyes are suddenly alight, pleading, wanting – and Caradhil could never resist them.

“I – I did. But – but who would follow me? Who would come with me? Caradhil – I – I cannot. I cannot do this alone.” He sighs again, and seems to be searching for words.

“My prince, do you not yet know, you have never needed to ask? Your group awaits your command.” Caradhil looks at him, and thinks to himself – they await me. They wait for me to tell them what you need, that we can give it you. We love you – and you see us no more.

 

 

Decision made, there is much work to be done. But, little though he really likes it, Caradhil has never been afraid of hard work, and in their hearts, despite their fears, none of the group is truly sorry to be leaving. All their closest have agreed to come, none will be torn away from one they care deeply for – and, well, they are elves. There will be time enough to return, time enough for many things.

Planning is simple enough – the talk can be done whilst combing, and Caradhil has always found persuading others of his views easy. It is soon clear that he is the leader of this venture, that the prince is a reason, an excuse, a name, an introduction, but – little more. Not that Caradhil minds. Indeed, part of him cannot help but be excited – to travel so far. To see so many lands. To meet so many other races. He supposes the stars will not be different, but – perhaps they will appear new in new skies. And – the trees, so far south, there will be new trees?

For a moment, he thinks of Brethylf, and his love of trees, deep and strong, even for a Silvan, and he grieves again that he will never hear his voice, never feel his hands again. But – as the Valar will it, so it shall be, he tells himself.

As for organisation – that is not as hard as one might think. Elves are good at caring for their possessions, good at having their own gear ready. And – they are all quite able to hunt, to recognise plants, to set snares, light fires, defend themselves. 

 

And so, once the decision is made, it does not take long before Caradhil finds himself with the hardest task of all. He must see his King, and ask his leave. He goes to the Hall, he waits his turn as any of Thranduil’s subjects may, and at last he is before his lord, and the remote gaze turns to him, the eyebrow raises, and,

“Caradhil. Speak as you will. Only – do not ask me to explain my son, your leader, to you.”

Caradhil swallows, this is harder than he had thought. For a moment, he wonders why he has not asked his prince to speak to his father as would seem natural – but only for a moment.

“My lord King, my King, my – my most dear King, I ask your permission for a new venture.” He licks his lips, and makes himself continue, “Doubtless, my King, you remember your son, my leader, mentioning his desire to return to the lands of Gondor, of Ithilien?”

That gesture to continue comes,

“He wishes to go without delay, for spring is coming. My lord King, I am here to ask that we – my group – our closest – that we may accompany your son? And help him in these lands.” Caradhil pauses, and then, finds himself unable to keep quiet, “For my King, I do not think he is able to find his way alone, nor to find whatever it is he needs in this dear Forest – and – and we cannot watch him – fade.” There. He has said it. Let what may come, he has said it. Not all of what his heart cries out to him to say, but enough.

The King looks at him.

“It seems my son is lucky in his friends. Caradhil, I know your group, I know how well you fought, how much service you have given this realm. I give you permission to do as you wish.” A pause, Caradhil wonders if he is dismissed, but the King continues, looking away, “I would think it a further great service were you to keep me informed of my son’s actions. I find I cannot rely on him to do so.”

Caradhil thinks, and answers, as honestly and yet courteously as he can,

“My King, I will tell you all I may. I – I cannot swear to go against his wishes.”

Thranduil inclines his head in understanding,

“I do not ask you to. I doubt he thinks enough to form a wish for secrecy, he merely has not the habit of thought for those who are not with him.”

Caradhil would like to answer this, but the accompanying gesture makes it clear that he should leave. As he reaches the door, he hears his name again, and turns,

“Caradhil. Ever have I been able to trust your care for him. Do not fail me now.”

And as the King again dismisses him, Caradhil leaves, wondering at such a heartfelt plea.

Do not fail me now, Caradhil, Thranduil thinks. I have no way to speak to my son. I have no way to understand him or have him understand me. I tried, Elbereth knows, when he came back I tried. I tried to speak to him, I tried to ask where he had been, why he had taken so long, why he had stayed away from this Forest when we needed him so. I thought – I thought he would be pleased to know we had needed him. But somehow – with every word I say, I feel him close against me. I do not know why, I do not know what words he hears, but it is not the words in my heart, not the words I am trying to speak to him.

Yet now – now he will go. And he does not come to ask himself, he sends Caradhil to me. Thranduil sighs, no, he does not send Caradhil. Caradhil comes to me of his own will, he comes because I am his King. My son does not think to come to me, as he has not thought to come all this winter, he has not thought to come to his Ada, to ask for help – for I can see he is distressed though I know not why. 

I suppose Caradhil knows. My son has asked him for help, has gone to him as he cannot come to me. Oh my Calenmiril, why, why did you leave us? I cannot talk to this son, I cannot talk to any of our sons. I need you so.

And alone in his throne room, the King schools his face to calm, to impassivity. He will not show his feelings, he will not terrify his elves with the depth of his despair.

 

 

Caradhil wonders again when they are ready to leave, how can the King, how can his prince, be so cold to each other? Their farewells are as bitter as winter’s chill, as cold as ice as they look at each other, their faces so similar among the Silvans, and speak the last words to each other that they may say for many a long year.

“Lord king,” Legolas says, bowing his head, as though really asking for something, “we would have your blessing on our journey and our venture. Will you grant it?”

And Thranduil raises a sardonic eyebrow; 

“When all is ready, and the road half-begun, what matters it whether I grant my blessing – or my leave, which, again, you have not asked?” The cold face remains as calm and impassive as ever, as he adds, “go, then, Legolas, ever have you been discontent in my halls. May you find what it is you seek elsewhere. And I wish good fortune and fair prospects to your companions – there will ever be a place for them here, should things not turn out as you plan.”

And Caradhil wonders, what can any do, when two are like this – and remembers his own dear Ada and Naneth with love and gratitude.


	14. Chapter 14

The journey is a pleasure in itself. To be away from the Forest, much though they have all loved it, to see new lands, to be a group, to comb together every night, to sing. And for all of them, to see their prince coming back to himself a little, to see that he is not completely lost to them, to hear his voice among theirs, even though he is still so sad – he is at least singing.

 

The day comes that they can see the city. The white towers of Gondor, just as they have heard them described. There seems to be much work happening – from many leagues away they can see figures busy in the fields, and – on the walls – but – are they – they are not Men. Maegsigil it is who asks,

“Can it be – are those Naugrim at work here?” he is about to go on, but Caradhil catches his eye quickly and silences him – he knows that Maegsigil has found it hard to forgive all the mistakes made by Durin’s folk, and has no way of understanding that fault may be on two sides.

But Caradhil has seen Legolas’ face, and wonders for an instant if the half-rumour he heard from those elves of Lorien was not as preposterous as he assumed – can it be there was some friendship formed between his prince and – a Naug?

“It is indeed possible,” he says, when it is clear no-one else is going to speak, “the new Gondor is to be a friend to many lands.” Closing the subject as he has learnt to do at times.

They ride up to the gates, and there are many waiting to greet them – many to see the elves – it had not occurred to them that they would be such a novelty, used as they are to the lands around the Lake and the Wood where their people are so well-known. Their horses are taken, they go forward – Caradhil finds he must almost push Legolas to the front and takes a moment to say, below the hearing of Men,

“My prince, you must do this. It is you who is the hero here, you who is the friend of the king – greet him. I will do all I can for you over the next weeks – but you must do this now,” and places a hand for reassurance on his prince’s shoulder.

Once primed, the prince does his duty well, if slightly woodenly, and all seems to be as they would wish. Until – until the king calls Legolas’ attention to one of the many dwarves standing about. Caradhil is slightly surprised to hear him say,

“Legolas, we are delaying the reunion of old friends – have you not seen who is here?”

Old friends, he thinks, he never mentioned this. And watches as his prince looks at this dwarf, who must be the one who travelled with him, and watches as his prince flushes as he always used, and watches as his prince reaches out, and watches as his prince changes suddenly, draws back his hands, pales, and greets this dwarf with such cold words, such a blank face as cannot but be an insult – even to this strange race. And for an instant, Caradhil sees again that elfling offering a comb desperately, that elfling rejected and he did not understand why, did not expect it, that elfling sobbing and learning to conceal his pain.

Fortunately, the king and queen see nothing, or acknowledge nothing, which is near enough, and the elves are soon hastened inside, shown their chambers, shown all there is to see. Caradhil finds he is being bustled along by a most welcoming dwarf, who seems eager to show him the room that is, apparently, to be shared by them for any paperwork. Caradhil is not entirely sure what paperwork is, or why he would need a room for it, but this dwarf is a veritable – he cannot help himself – mine of information, and ready to be charmed into telling all he knows of the city. 

And Caradhil is good at charm.

“I would be grateful if tomorrow, you could see your way to explaining everything you have learnt of how to deal with these – Men,” he says, “I have dealt much with those of Esgaroth, and a little in Dale in my time – but these I think are a different breed of man.”  
“Indeed they are,” he is told, “they have a great belief in royalty at the moment – you may find it easier to have your prince do much of any requisitioning you need.”

“Ah,” Caradhil leans to him as they walk from the study to the great hall, “then I may have a problem, for my prince is – not well.”

“In that case, I would recommend that you arrange for one of you to be ennobled,” the dwarf suggests, “as has my cousin Gimli been so recently. – You, yourself perhaps?”

Caradhil touches his hair, “Any who know, can see I am no Sindarin noble.”

“Aye,” the dwarf replies, “any who know. Think on it – but think and get agreement from your followers fast, master elf.”

Caradhil looks with surprise at his companion – Droin was it? Who knew a dwarf could be so cunning? Who knew? And – it seems to him good advice. 

While they are preparing themselves for the feast that is to be held in welcome that evening, he puts the suggestion to the group. He does not say it comes from a dwarf, nor that it is he who should be ennobled – but of course it is him that the group chooses. There is no word of dissent from their prince. No word at all. For one who was so keen to come here, he seems in as bad a state as ever he was in the Forest – Caradhil longs to hold him, comb him, pet him as he did when he was that little elfling – they are all worried, but – there is a feast. They must go.

 

The feast is as feasts are. There is food, wine, song, and – apparently in their honour, dancing. Caradhil does not dance. At first because he can see his prince is not capable, and would not leave him alone, then because he finds it an excellent time to – meet the people he will need. To exchange names, details, and be remembered as ‘that charming elf, who poured wine, who matched me drink for drink’ – no hardship that for any Silvan. 

The evening ends, and the group prepares to go to their chamber, to their balcony perhaps, to comb under the stars; but a most officious servant comes and insists that their prince follow him to another room – to be near some lord? They are confused, but Legolas seems content to do as he is bid, so – there has been much wine, they leave it. All will be well no doubt.

And – it is easier for the group to discuss things without him.


	15. Chapter 15

In the morning, Caradhil finds he is the only elf with the desire to be up and busy, so he makes his way to his new friend’s – study, that was the word, and begins to find out more. In fact, he finds this Droin is one who has travelled in the area they both know, they have much to compare, much in common.

And later he asks, testing his thoughts,

“I shall have many questions to ask you of how dwarves govern themselves. For I think you will have no king in these caves – yet your new King Thorin is many miles from here?”

And listens to the reply, “no king, but we shall have a lord in my cousin. And do you not have a prince?”

“For the moment,” he says, sighing, aware that this may not last as long as he had hoped, if the previous evening is anything to go by. But before he can be tempted to say more – and who knew a dwarf could be such a confidant, so easy to speak with? Who knew? Before he can pour out his worry, his concern, Maegsigil appears, breathless at the door, echoing his worry with his words,

“Caradhil, we have not seen our prince this morning, and none know where that chamberlain led him last night.”

But – he will not panic, will not be seen to panic,

“Well, ask a servant,” he says, “but our prince – our Legolas – is tired. Let him sleep.” And indeed, sleep, reverie, has seemed the only time their prince is happy since he has been home.

Maegsigil shakes his head, “You do not understand. We have asked and none knew. We have searched all the gardens and stables – and asked and asked but none has seen him this day.”

And now Caradhil cannot help but show his fear, his Legolas is not in any state to be wandering, he turns to this Droin, “Someone must know – my prince is not fully well – he – where will he be?”

Of course, Maegsigil is the worst elf to have near at this moment – he has never recovered from the loss of his family, never ceased to blame the Naugrim for their waking of the balrog, his suspicion is woken easily, “You have been kept talking by this Naug – and our prince is lost – I do not like this.”

Caradhil has no time for this, and though he knows it will cost him hours of patient combing and reassuring later, he says,

“Peace, fool, I sought him out – I have been asking all the questions, but indeed – Droin, you have been here longer than us – do you know where he might be?”

There is a pause, and for an instant Caradhil fears that this dwarf does indeed know something, that he has been remiss – oh my prince, oh my King, what have I done, how have I failed you – but then the answer comes,

“I think the King spoke of housing him in the room next my cousin. I can show you where that is,” and indeed as they look at each other, both elves remember that servant speaking of the lord of Aglarond – and that would be the leader of these dwarves. The dwarf, Caradhil realises, who he was warned by the Galadhrim as being a friend of his prince. The dwarf his prince was so pleased to see, so eager to speak to – until he was not, until something showed him things were changed, something hurt him, closed him down into coldness and pain. Caradhil wonders just what happened in those months away from the Forest, just what this story is. However, now is not the moment for suspicion, now is the moment for keeping Droin pleasant, and finding his Legolas. Nothing else matters.

“If you would – I would think it a great favour – leave this to me now, Maegsigil, I will sort this out,” and Caradhil dismisses the other, and follows this dwarf through the corridors, until as they are nearly at the indicated door, Droin slows and says,

“As I am here, I will speak to my cousin for he has not been much in evidence this morning either – I would guess these shield-brothers may well have stayed talking late into the night.” 

This does indeed seem possible, certainly their prince is not short of sleep or reverie recently, and if this – what was his name – Gimli – is a friend – perhaps he can help with whatever the trouble has been.

“Of course – nothing more likely,” he says, adding, “I think in our care for Legolas we had forgotten, but he is a hard one to read – or has been these last months. Much changed by this quest.” And that is more than he had ever thought he would reveal to one of this strange race. But – no matter. He goes to tap on the door he has been shown, even as the other knocks on his leader’s. 

But – the door which opens is the one Droin stands by, yet it is no dwarf standing there. Caradhil would be amused, the poor dwarf is so shocked – clearly it is true that they have some strange customs, and even in so warm a palace as this insist on full clothing at all times. He would be amused, he registers the dwarf’s expression for enjoyment later, he would be amused – were it not for his joy at the sight of his prince. Legolas. Legolas as he has never seen him in all these long years.

Oh he has seen him naked often enough – how not on all the patrols, all the hunting parties, all their swimming, washing, all their enjoyment of every weather the Valar send?

But – like this? Glowing? Golden? More beautiful than any elf he has ever seen? More shining? Carrying himself at last like the prince he is?

And – Caradhil can hear in his voice, in his song – at last, his prince has found that which he has searched for so long.

There will be no more grief here. No more need for concern.

Recovering himself, Droin speaks, “I came to find Gimli, the work on the gates will need him later today,” and Caradhil is impressed by his apparent calm. But his prince is answering,

“No, your Lord is not coming now. Or later. Go away. Deal with it yourselves today,” then he turns to Caradhil and aloud says, “And you can tell my people the same,” adding with his eyes, ‘tell them whatever you like, they are yours now, I have all I need in this room,’ and adds to the dwarf, “And have some food sent up. Whatever you think your lord would want.”

Caradhil is amazed to hear such sure commands from his so recently bewildered, uncertain prince. Who knew what love can do? Who knew? For this must be love. Nothing else can put such a shine on an elf.

Poor Droin answers, and Caradhil cannot help but admire his courage,

“Do I take orders from the prince of Mirkwood – or the leader of the elves of Ithilien? – Or are those my cousin’s orders? – Though I cannot imagine him being so indifferent to what food I send.”

And at that last Caradhil sees a secret smile cross his prince’s face, before he answers,

“I don’t care whether you take orders from the prince of Mirkwood or,” and he looks and meets the eye of Caradhil, acknowledging the truth of the matter, “or the leader of the elves of Ithilien or not.” And he looks back at Droin, challengingly, “No, those are not your lord Gimli’s orders either, they are my orders. The orders of the consort of the Lord of the Glittering Caves of Aglarond.”

And he sweeps back into the room, closing the door, in a way which to Caradhil is eerily reminiscent of his father. 

Caradhil must speak, he must ask this dwarf what is going on. He struggles for words, in all his long life he has heard of shield-brothers, he has heard of combmates, he has heard of friends, he has heard of marriage – but he does not quite know which of these he is seeing, which he needs to tell his group.

“Master dwarf, Droin, I – I do not quite know how to say this, but,” he decides to start by eliminating the least likely, “we have heard – is it possible – is your cousin actually a female?” After all, it is as well not to be too hasty with other races, one cannot be sure. From the expression on the other’s face – no. “No. That was ridiculous. Another of those old lies. And I should know better – for I heard that in the party who wrote our people’s wartime treaty there were females.” He feels it necessary to make some amends, to apologise for such a ridiculous comment – but he is very much in the dark here.

“Yes,” the dwarf says, and there is a sadness in his voice which hints at some great loss, “there were.”

“I mean – they – like our ladies, yours are not kept so close as men keep so often theirs, but – there is no doubting when you meet them.” Caradhil can hear himself floundering.

“No, there is no doubting,” comes the unhelpful reply, leaving Caradhil no more enlightened, before the dwarf continues, “I would say your prince looks well, and we had best do as he bid. Perhaps we should suggest that the food simply be left in his room though – I do not think half the palace needs such a demonstration.”

Which does indeed seem sensible. Caradhil agrees and they leave – the dwarf to see the orders carried out, Caradhil to talk to the group. For they will all wish to know their prince is well – and perhaps between them they can come to an understanding of this.

 

All day Caradhil has avoided his group – and that is in itself an odd feeling – but he does not know what to say. He sent a message to Maegsigil that their prince was well – but he did not give details. He did not know what to say, he still has not decided. He has hidden here in this – study – all day now, but the evening is approaching and with it another feast. He supposes he should talk to the group before that – but – he has not come any closer to knowing what to say. Should he hide behind half-truths and talk of old friends, of shield-brothers – or would his prince be better served if he repeated those words that have so shaken his composure – ‘the consort of the Lord of Aglarond’? What does that mean when his prince says it?

He is still sitting there, trying to find an answer, when his new friend – and an odd thought that is – enters.

“Is all well with you, Caradhil?” Droin hesitates, then, “I am no expert on elves, but – you do not seem as you were this morning.”

He sighs, but really – he has no choice. Who else can he ask to explain this?

“I am not as I was this morning. I do not know what I am to say to my group, and – more importantly – I do not know whether I need say it fast now before the evening’s feast or whether it can safely be left until our normal discussion time – our combing that ushers in the night.” He is in such a state, it does not occur to him that he is telling this dwarf more of elf-life than is perhaps wise – fortunately, this dwarf is not very interested.

“I would think you are safe to leave your discussion,” Droin smiles with a particular resigned expression which Caradhil will come to know, “my cousin is not planning to attend tonight’s dinner if the amount of food he has sent for today is anything to go by. I would guess he thinks your prince has not eaten since last he saw him. Besides,” he adds, somewhat bewilderingly, “if you had chambers on the same side of the palace you too would know that the reunion of these ‘shield-brothers’ is still continuing. Loudly.” He sighs, and seeing Caradhil’s perplexity waves a hand, “ignore me. But – yes, I think you are safe to leave your discussion until this evening.”

Caradhil is relieved, but the other’s acceptance of the situation enables him to ask,

“Droin, you will think me slow, and I would be grateful if you would keep this between us, but – what need I explain? My prince – the way he spoke – I – you assured me your cousin is not female – yet he spoke as though – as though – “ he runs out of words.

Droin laughs,  
“As though they are married. Aye, he did, and I did. We shall see when they come out by their braids I daresay, but I think that yes, that is how it is. My cousin has been grieved this winter – though he shows it by his temper – and had changed his braids to show he had found his love, so if all is as well between them as it seems – a form of marriage it is.” He looks puzzled in his turn now, “is this not something that happens among elves? The love of warrior for warrior?”

Caradhil thinks,  
“It may. It – it would I think be – different – than you are implying, but – yes, love happens. I can see there is love. That I am not shocked or confused by. It is the – the implication of permanence. For us – the only such binding is marriage, for bearing elflings – children.” Well, he supposes some do vow to comb together for life – but such a thing is rare. Incomprehensible to him. He is Caradhil. He hides from the thought that for his prince – for his prince he could have vowed so. He hides as he has hidden all day from the hurt, the rejection he will not let himself feel. It was not love, he has told himself this before. It was not love as all the tales say love is. He will not be hurt, he will not play that part. His prince is golden, joyous, happy in a way that Caradhil has never seen him, a way that – he accepts – he could never have made him. That is all that matters, it is all that has ever mattered – to serve his prince, to serve his King. He is Caradhil. He needs not this love of which they speak. He meets the shocked eyes of the dwarf, “I think our races are different in more ways than we knew. But – we – those of us who are here – we love our prince. We have left our home to bring him here; to save him from the desolation of spirit he was fallen into we have risked the anger of our King. We will not fail in love now. If this is what he wants, needs – it is what he shall have and we will support him.”

Droin looks a question,  
“You can speak for all? I have spent much of the day, and will spend much of tomorrow smoothing my cousin’s path – and believe me, there is not one of us who is surprised at his choosing a male. We just thought – a man. Or a hobbit. Not an elf.”

“A hobbit!” Caradhil laughs, and it is a relief to find something in this day that can have both of them laughing at such a preposterous thought – why it is so they cannot say, but it is. “As for that – I am not even beginning to consider my lord King’s displeasure at this news. You may know he is not over-fond of your race?” and as their eyes meet, he knows his understatement is found amusing, “But, I will deal with that in time. For now, yes – I can speak for all. Believe me, Droin, when I put my mind to something, I can get agreement from this, or any, group of elves.” He pauses, then, “so long as it does not include my lord King. He, I cannot promise to persuade.”

“As you say, leave that for another time.” There is a hesitation, “I warn you though, this is not the custom in Gondor. King Elessar has made it clear to me, he does not wish this to be made public. Rohan is different. I know not which of their customs in this the people of Ithilien will abide by.”

Caradhil smiles again, but this time with a hint of steel,

“I do. If they wish for the help of the elves. As for the king’s wish to keep our lords’ state quiet – you have seen my prince. Is it possible any could look on him last night, see the change we have seen, and not read the cause?”

Again that – what is the word, smirk? 

“Certainly not if they are not deaf, and have been to the East wing of the palace this day.”

Still not really understanding, Caradhil agrees vaguely, and goes to prepare his elves for the feast, and explain that their prince is well, will not join them tonight, and that all will be discussed as much as they could wish at combing – if they will just avoid the topic until then, please.

 

 

After an uneasy dinner, where the two empty places seem to draw far more eyes than their occupiers did the night before, and the king does not seem as pleased by the renewed friendship of his erstwhile companions as one might expect, the elves retreat to their chamber, and all look at Caradhil. He gestures for them to find their combs, and begins, settling himself with Meieriel, who he feels most confident of convincing quickly – she is a most sensible, right-thinking elf.

“Our prince,” he begins, “I saw him this morning. He is well. He is – more than well. He is golden. Glowing.”

“Golden?”  
“For who?”  
“Who? Caradhil? Who?”  
“Who?”  
“Did the Evenstar bring one with her from Rivendell?”  
“Who?”

“My group, this is not easy. But – before I speak and then before you speak – please – remember how he has been this winter? Believe me when I say he is golden? We came here for him. We came to make him well. We – we could not. Only one could. Only his One.”

“And he has her?”  
“They will marry?”  
“At last, at last he will marry?”  
“All is well?”  
“All is agreed?”  
“Will our King be happy?”  
“Who?”  
“Caradhil, who?”

Caradhil takes a deep breath. There is never going to be an easy way to say this.

“The lord of Aglarond.” Actually, that does not sound too dreadful – and the group seems to accept it.

“A mortal?”  
“Then – our prince will die?”  
“One day, our prince will die?”  
“How long?”  
“How long will our prince have?”

Caradhil thinks that perhaps this was a good way to approach it.  
“I would guess – a hundred years or more. And – my group, let us not waste them. Let us not lose him before we must, or for longer than we must – for surely he will need to spend time with this mortal, away from us. Let us make him welcome when we can. And his love as well.”

“Of course.”  
“The group must.”  
“But – a mortal?”  
“A man?”  
“How can this be?”  
“A man?”  
“Two males?”  
“Can he comb?”  
“How can this be?”  
“Caradhil – a man? Truly?”  
“A hundred years?” it is Maegsigil who has picked up on this. “A hundred years? What manner of man is this, Caradhil?”

And Caradhil can think of no answer but the truth.

“No manner of man. Any man – we would have but fifty years. If that. Be grateful then that I said not man. This lord – this lord – my group, have you really not guessed? Our prince – he loves – I do not know how this has happened, but believe me, it has, he loves this dwarf. The one he travelled with. Who is now lord of Aglarond. Who was named Elvellon, elf-friend by the lady of Lorien herself. Who – who whatever else, has restored my – our – beloved prince to health.” He is raising his voice now to carry over the distressed babble, “my group, I saw my prince this morning – he is golden, he glows, his skin, his eyes, his hair – his song. My group, his song is more joyous than I have ever heard him. Ever. In all these long years.” He waits as this sinks in, “My group, I like this little more than you – but – believe me, he looks better than he ever has. Please. We love him do we not? We – we must talk it through tonight. He will – I hope – be with us tomorrow – we must show him we will accept this. Or – I truly feel he will leave us and go to these caves and not come back.”

There is silence. He looks from face to face. He knows what they think, what they feel – it is what he thinks and feels. But – however much they dislike the idea of this dwarf – if this is what their prince needs. They will come to live with it.

Eventually.

It is a long night.


	16. Chapter 16

And now, now they are preparing again to go to another feast. Caradhil hopes that at this one, his prince will appear. He has had a busy day, they all have – work is beginning on this city. He has spoken more with Droin, and is thinking that perhaps they should plan to leave the city at the same time. He does not know anymore if his prince will come with them, or if they will go alone to Ithilien. But – after all, he knew he was the leader of these elves. He knew there was no chance of his prince becoming the king he once dreamed he would be. He sighs. It has been a long day, last night was a long night, and yesterday was a long day too. 

Every day will seem long without his prince or his King.

There is no sign of his prince, so the group prepares to go down without him. Caradhil knows, he has made it his business to ensure, that all his prince’s possessions were taken to that other room – there is no need for him to come to them. They just hoped he would. They would like to have held him – to have had him theirs – just once more.

 

 

This being the third night, the feast is quieter, the elves are less of a novelty now. They are still sitting together, although Droin and Caradhil, moved by a similar thought, have ensured that the two races are separated only by two seats. Two seats they both rather hoped would be filled this night by their lords. Their eyes meet, and Droin leans to him and says, low enough that no others will hear,

“I hoped. I – I spoke to my cousin but he was – distracted. I told him they must come down soon – but – I don’t think he listened. In truth, he never listens to me.”

Caradhil makes a noise, which in any not-elf would be a snort,

“They are indeed well-matched then. It is long since my prince listened to anyone.”

But even as they share this thought, they feel a silence falling, and they turn to see the pair enter. Caradhil is struck at once by how, for the first time, Legolas really looks every inch Thranduilion – tall, proud, beautiful – all that an elf-prince should be. 

Every inch that is, except for the marriage braids – it is long since his King wore any braids – the dwarven beads in his hair – they are beautiful, costly, but to an elf unmistakeably dwarven – and, more than anything, the hand which is held so firmly by this dwarf, this – Gimli.

This Gimli, who, Caradhil can see, wears in his hair also marriage braids (so Droin was right, he thinks, detachedly), each one finished with, not a bead, but – Caradhil can feel all his elves silent with horror – a jewel, fashioned into a bead, taken from the necklace their King bestowed upon his son the day he earned his warrior’s braids. For an instant Caradhil closes his eyes – I do not wish to see – but then he remembers – his elves are watching him. He must react as he would wish them to.

He meets Droin’s eye again, and they stand, forcing their peoples to do the same, and as though they had planned this (how not – they have had time enough this day), they say

“Hail the Lords of the Caves of Aglarond, of the Elves of Ithilien.” And as their people repeat the greeting, they are repaid, more than repaid by the look in those eyes.

The two greet the king Elessar, as is right, though perhaps he is not as glad for them as they would have hoped, and then come to the seats which are so clearly for them. Caradhil finds himself not next his prince, as he had expected, but next to this dwarf. He exerts himself to make conversation, to charm, but – he finds it hard. He is not used to such resistance, but he perseveres. He is an elf, he can be patient. 

 

 

After the meal, there is once again dancing. Again, Caradhil does not dance – he rarely does, preferring to watch and talk unless he is completely sure of the company. Tonight, tonight however, Legolas rises with the others, and it is long since Caradhil has seen him dance like this.

For an instant, he remembers his words when he bid his prince farewell, so long ago, when he sent him to Imladris, ‘I will see you dance, I will see you dance with all the joy there is in you’, remembers how he once hoped his prince would dance with him, for him. But, he reminds himself, that was not love. I did not, I do not, love him in that way. He is my prince, my elfling, to see him joyous is enough.

Indeed, this is no dance of Men, no dance of Gondor. This is no Sindar prince’s dance. This is nothing the Noldor can do – and a glance at those from Imladris confirms that. This is how Silvans dance. This is how Silvans dance when they wish to show themselves to one. This is a courtship dance. Well, he thinks, if this king did indeed hope to keep this quiet, he had best forsake that hope now – the dwarf, Gimli, he must get used to the name, Gimli, could not be watching any more obviously. Indeed, Legolas could not dance for him any more obviously. Caradhil begins to understand that there is truly more than friendship, more than combing here, even if he has not the words for what there is.

But, under cover of the music, Caradhil has chance to lean to this dwarf-lord and say, 

“My prince is much to me. To all of us here. If you hurt him, we will find you, and we will make you pay.” And before the other can answer, he continues, “I do not know, I do not wish to know, what you did to him that he came home to us like to die. But I tell you now, if you do that to him again, it is you that will die. If we have to kill all your people, lay waste to your lands – we will do this.” And he meets the eyes of this dwarf, and is surprised by what he sees in them.

“Caradhil,” he answers, “your prince is my One. Rather than hurt him, I would die a hundred times, I swear to you. But – I will hurt him. One day, I will die. And there will be no comfort for him, save following me. I cannot change this. If I could release him, I would. I cannot.” He pauses, and Caradhil nods – this he knew, this he is going to learn to live with, he supposes. But the other has not finished, “But – if he means so much to you – where were you when he was an elfling? Where were you all the days of his life he was uncombed? Where were you all the times his father, your precious king, turned away from him? Answer me that, my fine elf.”

Caradhil finds he is impressed. And the guilt is strong enough to make him answer,

“When he was an elfling – mostly, I was not there. I was on patrol. Before I went, I saw him, so small, so uncombed, I remember my group met his need, as for any elfling. When I was away – I saw him once only in those years – ask him when first he was on a horse, when first he learnt the pleasure of speed, of arms holding him as the landscape passes swifter than even an elf can run. When I came back – I knew things were not right. Ask him. I gave him his first bow, his first archery lesson. When I found how bad things were – and you must know he can hide his thoughts when he chooses, - I had him into our group for training – and he first shared his comb. As for my King – my King is a great King. He – I remember him before your elf was born, when he was a good Ada to his other sons, a loving husband. He bleeds inside too. But – you are right. He has not been good to this prince. Why do you think we love Legolas so? Why do you think we are so fiercely protective? Where was I? Tell me, does he have no good memories of his Ada?” and he sees in the eyes that there is one, “Yes, I was there. I could have let him hear those words as he heard every other word his Ada said. I – I have always lied to him about that and every other time I could. Tell him if you wish. But think what it will do to him first. It is the only lie I have ever told him, and I do not know if it is truly a lie. To you, to me, if our fathers said ‘you have neither disappointed nor disgraced me this day’ we would know it for no praise. To him – if that is all he has – would you take that from him? Believe me, it took me years to find that much for him to cling to. So – where was I – I was there. I was always there to pick him up, even when he knew not that it was I behind it. Love him well, dwarf. He needs it.”

Caradhil sees he has made an impression. They both continue to watch the dancing, which is rapidly becoming not so much an elf-contest, as an elf showing-off – with all the others letting him. Caradhil is not the only one to feel such joy in seeing him like this at last. Then, Gimli turns again and says,

“Shit. I am sorry, Caradhil. I should have known from how he spoke of you, you have been good to him. I – I am just so fucking angry for him. He is so easily hurt, so – you will laugh, elf, with your many centuries, but – he is so young.” No, Caradhil thinks, I will not laugh, I will honour your insight, I will learn to accept you love my elfling, you see him as he is. But the dwarf is still speaking, “I – I will think on what you say of your king.” There is a pause, then “I think we will be seeing much of each other. We had best learn to get along.”

Caradhil smiles, 

“I intend us to. If you can keep him as happy as he is this day – or even half as happy – I will be in your debt. And you will be gifting me his colony.” As though that mattered. But – Caradhil has heard that dwarves are jealous and possessive lovers – he would not risk that. After all, it was never love. Not love like this.

“Aye, and my cousin has mine. I daresay your king would call us both bloody fools to give such power away.”

“That I do not know – but remember, my King never had the choice. When his love went West, there was no-one to whom he could leave the care of his people.”

He can see this does not entirely convince, but – they have come to an agreement. They will learn to work together, they may in time come to like each other. There are not many who can impress Caradhil, but this is one.

And – they have time. A little.

All the time that is left to his prince.


	17. Chapter 17

The days pass. The gardens of Minas Tirith begin to look like gardens again, the gates begin to look as the gates of such a city should. Caradhil is busy, Droin is busy, the elves are all busy, the dwarves – the dwarves seem busier than any folk should be. 

Legolas and Gimli – are not so busy. Nor are they much in evidence. Whatever passed between them and the king, they have since chosen to spend much time either in their chambers or riding out of the city into the countryside. Caradhil does not ask – it is not his place to ask. The prince is happy still, and that must be enough.

But – the work is nearly done. Oh, they could stay longer, but – this is a city of Men. There are so many customs they do not understand, so many adjustments to their natural pace of life that they must make. At last, they understand a little of how strange, how difficult those months among mortals must have been for their prince. It is something they would all have liked to discuss with him – but he does not come to them to comb. 

Still, Caradhil thinks, if they are to leave soon, he must know whether their prince is coming with them – and if he is not, there is a letter to write. He made a promise to his King – he must send word of this son, even though he does not know how he will find the words to tell what he must.

And as he is thinking this, he sees Legolas, blessedly alone, for once, sitting under a flowering tree – enjoying the feel of spring sun, the light flickering through the petals. Caradhil decides that now is as good a time as he is likely to find, and makes his way to him, without haste, enjoying the sight.  
“..............Lais-gin gelin eldhenthaid.”

Legolas smiles up at him,  
“Why is it always that song with you? In all these years, why? I – I cannot think of you without hearing it in my mind.”

Throwing himself down alongside, Caradhil laughs,  
“I did not know it was. It is just – my song. Mellon-nin, you know how elves are.” He pauses, “you have not forgot that, surely?” and realises how he sounds even as the other looks at him, stricken with guilt.

“I – I am sorry, Caradhil. I brought you all here and now – “

“And now, you have no need for us. We know.” He sighs, “we see how it is with you. But – you could have told us. You could have said, Caradhil, take me to Gondor – take me to Erebor – take me to find him. Not this pretence, this – Legolas, we thought you were like to die, to sail West.”

And he sees that flush return, the old diffidence, the hesitation and it hurts that his prince feels ashamed in front of him,

“I also. I – I was too afraid. I am sorry, Caradhil, I – I had not the courage to tell you how it was.”

“In all the days of your life, have I ever given you reason to doubt my love? Ever, my prince?”

There is a silence. Both elves look at the ground, neither knows what to do with their hands – this is the kind of conversation that should be had while combing. And at the thought, Caradhil speaks again,

“Legolas, will you not comb with your group? We – we know you will not reverie with us. We – we do not understand. We miss you. We also love you. Surely,” he looks at the fall of hair with its new braids and strange beads, the idly moving fingers which are all he can see of the other, “surely he can spare you for some part of one evening?”

Legolas looks up and meets his eyes,  
“Yes, he probably could. It is I – I who fears to be apart, I who fears time lost, time wasted. I did not know what it was to have only a small count of years.” He hesitates, and Caradhil waits, there is more to come it seems, “Besides, I – I cannot comb with you. I – I am vowed – we – he and I – I thought you understood – he is combmate and more than combmate to me.”

Caradhil closes his eyes for a long moment and breathes, the group had begun to wonder, but none of them understand, not really, and he cannot stop himself speaking,

“He is a dwarf! How can he comb you? What is this? What do you mean? – and – what can you be to him? What is this more than combmates? There is no more. You are an elf, Legolas, there is nothing more for us. You know this, I know this, all know this. How can you say you will not comb with us?”

There is a flash of the old pride and anger,  
“I am Thranduilion, it is not for you to tell me who I may comb with, or what I may not do,” and Legolas goes to rise, to walk away. 

But Caradhil will not have it end so. He has not waited these weeks to have this one chance to speak lost, he is faster and stronger, he grasps the other elf’s wrist and pulls him down,

“No. You may be Thranduilion, but it is I who will have to answer to Thranduil. I am your group leader, you know this, you will answer me.” For once, he lets himself speak the truth of it, the truth they both have hidden from so long. He stops, and pushes the anger from his mind, “Legolas, speak to me. Do you not see how you hurt us? You push us away. All we ask is that you tell us how we may love you now. You say you can no longer comb with us – I do not understand. Please. For all the years I have been your friend, for all the service I have done you – tell me. I – I will not share all with the group, if you desire me not to, but I must know that I can help them understand. And – and my prince, someone must tell your father of your decision. If not you, then I – and I would know the truth before I – “

Legolas breaks in,  
“Ada? Ada? You would threaten me with Ada? He cares not where I am or what I do. You heard his words. He does not expect to see me again – what matters it to him?”

“Then you would have him hear some strange tale from a trader, from the gossip of the Lake-men? You would risk his anger – not for yourself only, but for this dwarf, for his homeland? For your elves?” Caradhil sighs, “Indeed, now I think I do not know you. I thought – I hoped – you would take some care for us. Do we not deserve the truth?”

And he sees he has hit upon the right words. It is a measure of his distress, he supposes, that it has taken so long. Legolas bites his lip, and, looking down again, says,

“You are right, Caradhil Finbonaurion. You are always right. I – I had not thought. I am sorry. I – I will try.” He pauses, setting his thoughts in order, Caradhil assumes,

“I love Gimli. I love him in the way of elves – and he has learnt to comb for me – we have exchanged combs. Until the end of his days. Do you see now? I cannot comb with you, any more than any who is vowed to a combmate.”

Caradhil nods, this he almost understands – not the part about a dwarf learning to comb, but the rest.

“And?” he asks, knowing there is more.

“I – I love him. He loves me. He loves me in the way of dwarves – of mortals. I – must I say this? – I have learnt to love him, to be with him in that way also. This is what I mean by more than combing. I – it is as a marriage between us. In every way.” And now it is not just Legolas who is red. This is more than Caradhil had expected, more than he really knows how to understand.

“I do not wish to hear more of this, I – I understand enough of what you are telling me. I – you know the dwarves – and probably the Men – talk of this – we – we have not understood, but – I will find a way to tell the group enough. You – you do not mind them all knowing? You – you do not mind these others’ words?”

Still red, still looking intently at the ground, Legolas answers,

“I do not like that the group must know. But – I know they must. I am lucky you will talk to them. I – I do not really like it when the dwarves, the Men, tease – but – that is their way. They mean no harm. I – I am assured that as soon as another wedding takes place, the jokes will pass on.”

Caradhil shakes his head. How can this be? How – what is this – this which he has no words for – between two males – there can be no child – what can his prince mean? It is all very odd. No matter. Mortals are as mortals are. And, apparently, his prince is now as mortals are. There is one thing though.

“I meant what I said. Will it be you or I who writes to your father? It – my prince, it would be better from you.”

“I also meant my words. I do not think Ada would wish to read any letter I could write. If you feel it your duty – I give you leave to do as you wish. I am sorry Caradhil, I know you are caught between us. And – if it helps, I am glad these elves have you. You will lead them in Ithilien as I could never have done. I – I need not name you leader, you always were. I – may I come to the group at combing tomorrow and formally take my leave of you?”

And Caradhil thinks his heart has never ached so,  
“My prince, you are always welcome to come to us. We – we would let you join us in song or talk without your comb. If not now, then in years to come, when – when –“ he does not know how to say it.

“When Gimli dies. Before that, I think we will have gone West, for I do have the longing. And after that – I shall need no combing. I will follow him. I – I told you. This is as a marriage. But – I thank you for the offer. There may be times when I need the song.” Legolas looks up, and meets Caradhil’s eyes, and Caradhil realises that both of them are near tears. He is moved to open his arms in a most unelflike way, and Legolas flings himself into the embrace. They hold each other, and Caradhil cannot resist this last chance to touch that hair as he says,

“I am sorry. For all the times I did not help you, my prince, my elfling. Be happy now.”

And he feels the other cling, just for a moment, and hears the answer,  
“Best of elves, best of friends, always you have helped me. Without you – I do not know what would have become of me, lonely and uncombed.”

After a long moment, Caradhil pulls back, and rises,  
“I have much to do. Sit there. You looked so happy in the sun. I would have you sit there and make such a picture for your love to see.” And he smiles at the light in his prince’s eyes, and walks away without looking back.


	18. Chapter 18

Caradhil sighs, and stops writing. Not for the first time, he wishes this study he shares with Droin had a window – although, he reflects, if it did, this letter would be taking even longer to write. He wishes he had someone to help him with this – but Droin is a dwarf, and for all the good will between them, it would not be right to discuss such a thing with him. He has asked, in passing, how the news has been told to Droin’s king, to the parents of the lord Gimli – and has heard it has not yet. He has understood that Droin does not feel it is of much importance. That the news is not his to tell, that it is – personal. Not a matter for public notice. The lord Gimli is not a prince – that makes a difference.

He wondered if there were any of his elves he dare talk this through with – but he suspects his King knows them all well enough to recognise another’s phrasing. So he dare not. He is the one his King entrusted with the care of the prince, he is the one tasked with reporting to his King. He does not know if this letter is wise, but he fears that if he does not write and begin at least to tell his King the news he will not like to hear, that news will travel in some other worse way. 

He has tried, so hard, to lead up to this gradually. To emphasise the many mortal friends Legolas has, the importance of trade with Erebor, the difference between a lord of the Mountain and the caves of Aglarond and any of that desperate band all those years ago. He decides that this letter, of all the attempts he has made, is the best and must be sent – for the sake of the pride of the king, and, he believes, the love that a father bears his son, even when he cannot show it.

As for what the letter does not say, he decides that perhaps it need not be said yet. His prince has not formally declared anything to the group, that conversation in the gardens was just between them, so perhaps silence is best. Let the king read between the lines if he chooses, he tells himself. He suspects that, just as Legolas has begun to be referred to by the dwarves as ‘Consort of Aglarond’, there will be a time when he and his elves are asked to find a title for Gimli – indeed, he even has one ready – ‘Companion of Ithilien’ might be acceptable – but, there is time enough for that news.

He knows he can be a good leader of the elves of Ithilien, knows he was always going to be the leader in fact if not in name – and in his heart he knows that if this love had not saved Legolas and taken him away, he would have faded and left them forever. He wonders if his King knows this also. Even if he does not yet know what – or who – has saved his son – he must have seen the danger. Surely.

None of this will he say to Thranduil – one does not speak on these matters to a king if he does not ask – but he silently rehearses the thoughts for the day the king asks him; “What has become of my son?”, and knows that Thranduil will hear only an excuse for the failure of Legolas to become the ice-cold ruler he himself has been, all the long years since the massacre on the plains of Dagorlad.

%%%%%%%%%%

_From Caradhil, leader of the elves-who-will-be-of-Ithilien, to my Lord Thranduil, King of the Woodland Realm of Eryn Lasgalen, greetings, and fair wishes._

\- Wait. Caradhil is not the leader. My son is leader. What has happened to my son?

My son. My youngest, most impossible son. My discontent, my failure, child of my sorrow. 

Born too late. Born to break his mother’s heart and send her West. 

My son, who I have never understood. Who has never listened to any of the lessons I would have him learn.

My headstrong, wilful son.

What has happened to my son?

_I send you this letter as a courtesy, fearing that no other may have thought to do so, that you may know that your loyal elves,_

loyal? Loyal elves would be here. Loyal elves stay with their king unto death. Or at least discuss their departure, ask leave, they do not make plans in secret and steal my son away from me again.

That is unfair. Caradhil came to me. He asked my permission, he knelt to me as he ever has. Caradhil may serve my son, he may be torn, but – he is, or would like to be, still my elf. 

_having reached Minas Tirith within one moon of leaving your halls, now prepare to depart this city once more._

outstayed your welcome there? Found that the strength of men is not as it was fabled to be? Men will fail. My son seems to insist on linking his fate with theirs, and it will end as it always does – men will fail and the elves who trust them will be destroyed. Destroyed as my father, my grandfather, my brothers, my eldest son were destroyed on the plains of Dagorlad, destroyed as the Last Alliance was destroyed by a man’s weakness. My son. Where is my son?

_The people of this realm have been most welcoming, and glad, I think, of our aid and skill with making this city and its lands beautiful and the home of green things growing once more._

“glad of our aid and skill”? Is that all? If there is no cost to them but praise, they will not value it – men value little that which costs them little. Oh my son – have I taught you nothing?

_We may, as I hope, return here to continue this work, but it has been decided that we should now journey onwards to Ithilien, to see that realm which has been described to us as so fair and wooded. As you know, my King, we hope there to begin a settlement which elves may call home for some many years, and teach any of our knowledge which seems useful to those of Gondor’s people who are settled in that land._

All this I know. But where is my son in this? Is this not his decision to make, his description you quote? His plans for more ties with men? Legolas, what have you done?

_Since it seems not likely that any of our party will soon be returning to your lands, I find I must use this letter to give you news which may not please you._

No. No. I will not hear it. My son. Where is my son? What hare-brained scheme has he been talked into this time? Mithrandir, have you stolen my son from me again? Taken him off on some fool’s errand to leave my people leaderless in the realm of men? 

A greater fear occurs to me. He has gone West. He has sailed and I will never see my son again. He has gone as his mother went so long ago, and I will remain here, our last words cold and hostile. As all too many of our words have been cold and hostile. Never can I speak my heart to him, never will he listen to what I say; never has he listened to what I say, only to what he expected to hear. In all these long years, I have hoped that one day we will be adults, able to speak together as I can no longer with my other sons – but this one has remained forever an elfling, listening only to his own foolishness – until now, he has taken himself over the Sea. I knew he had heard the cry of the gulls, yet I did nothing to try and keep him, nothing to try and talk to him.

Oh my son. My son.

_Your son, Legolas, who was to have been our leader in thought and deed, has made known to us that he will not depart this city with us._

Not yet gone? What is this? Why does he stay? Legolas, what foolishness now is this? What can hold an elf in a city of men? No. He would not be so blind as to love a mortal woman? Not after all these years of elf maidens meaning nothing to him. Surely not. Not even this son would do that. And yet, if he does, perhaps that would not be the worst. It would tie him to this world a little longer, give me more time to yet make things right, children of his own might teach him what it is to be a father. He is no peredhel, I will not lose him to death, I am not Elrond, I need not fear that.

_His plans are his own, and I would not forestall his writing to you, were I sure that he will do so, but my King, I fear he may be remiss through no intent of his own._

The elf speaks in riddles. What does he mean? My son is doing something Caradhil does not approve, clearly, yet he does not wish to say so. Ever he is loyal to my son, if this scheme is one even he cannot like, it must be indeed foolish beyond measure. My son has been remiss in telling me of his plans and intentions before now, I see no reason why this time it would be any different – or less his own choice. 

_My King, your son is well – have no fear for his health. In truth, he looks happier and better than I have seen him look for many months, or perhaps years._

I know what this means. He thinks to blame me for my son’s discontent – yet how is it my fault? How can I be to blame for the state he has been in since he came back from a quest I did not send him on – would indeed have forbidden had I known? I had hoped that his home would cheer him, hoped he would lose his misery, kill it as he killed the spiders – ever has his skill in fighting been his pride – yet it seemed not. He rejoined his troop even, yet I heard no word of thanks for all my care of them – a hard task to keep any of such a reckless set alive, yet I managed to preserve seven throughout all the fighting of the war, without any of them suspecting my watching over them. It was all I could do for my son, I spent other warriors, dear to me, to keep those seven for him – yet I do not think he even cared when home he came, like a washed out shell, full of sea-longing, fading until the chance to leave was handed him.

 

Yet – I am to blame. Had I allowed this Caradhil to go to Imladris – my son would not have been alone among mortals. Much might have been different had this Silvan been at his side. I thought to save my Legolas from his foolish heart, but now I wonder whether I did not merely cast him further from me. Caradhil, for all his faults, is an elf of the Forest. He would have brought him home. He would have protected him.

_I believe he plans to remain in the city for some time – as you know, during the war of the ring he became friends with many mortals, all of whom he will hear news of and perhaps see here, or travel to in company from here._

Here it comes. Which mortals? Which mortal? Which girl?

_It may be that he will journey from here to the Shire, the land of the Halflings, I know that he had much to do with some of those folk during that war._

Halflings? What care I for Halflings? A pleasant enough people, but surely even this son is not so lost to sense.......

_My King, I think it is also likely that he will journey into the lands of the Rohirrim – a goodly race of men, much fond of horses and battle, among whom your son, as you will understand, has many friends._

Ah yes, that would make sense. I could believe some horse-girl might tempt him. Goodly people I believe they are indeed. I remember them not so very long ago – long ago though it may be in the count of Men – when they lived nearer to us. When they were not the Rohirrim, but the Men of Eotheod and lived between this Forest and the Mountains. They were Men we could trade with. They will still be Men we can trust. And horses are always a good dowry. This would be an alliance I could give blessing to – Legolas, have you actually done something sensible for once, even if in your own foolish way? Is my son not as impulsive as he appears?

_It may be, that while in the lands of the king of Rohan, he will visit the new dwarf colony in Aglarond._

He may do what? No. I will not believe it.

_These are dwarves from Erebor who have been permitted by the king to dwell in and improve the caves long used for refuge by the people of this land._

And we know what dwarves from Erebor are like, do we not? Oh my son, you have not been so foolish as to promise guest friendship to a dwarf?

_I have not tried to dissuade him from this, lord, although I know your distrust of the dwarves of Erebor of old; since we do now have trade with them through the men of Laketown, I deemed it unwise to upset any negotiations your son may have been trusted with by you._

My distrust, Caradhil? It was not my ears that were threatened. If you have learnt to forgive that, I will know my son has indeed become enamoured of these Naugrim – for only he could persuade Caradhil to forget a danger to his – prowess. We may trade. Money is money, jewels are jewels, skilled work is skilled work, but that is all. And I would as soon trust my horse with trade negotiations as my son – at least my horse can be relied on to refuse any orders save my own, not the other way about as my son. Oh my son, what have you done now? And what is it going to cost me this time?

_Also, the leader of these dwarves, one Gimli, son of Gloin, was one of the fellowship who set forth from Rivendell with your son during that war, and it is said they were close companions at that time._

Said by whom? Said to whom? Not to me. I am not surprised my son said nothing to me, but this is the first I have heard from any. When did you hear of this, Caradhil, why did you not tell me of this? Suddenly I remember your hours of combing with Galadhrim – I assumed that was merely Caradhil doing as he does. But – did you learn something then that you chose to keep silent? How that must have hurt you, for I know how you thought of my son.

_This dwarf has been in Minas Tirith during our stay, also working for the kingdom for the sake of the friendship he bears the king, and it seems this companionship is still close._

Close? My son? A dwarf? A dwarf who just happened to be in Minas Tirith at the same time? I know my son better than that – I will believe this a coincidence when I believe iron floats. I do not like this.

_Lord king, they talk of travelling together and it seems we will have no prince in Ithilien without this dwarf-lord also._

Travelling? ‘they’? ‘together’? And what does this mean – ‘we will have no prince in Ithilien without this dwarf’? Caradhil, what are you trying to tell me? What foolishness of my son is this? 

He is no young elf, just out of the earliest centuries, to be so footloose. He is my son. He has a colony to rule – I gave him more trust than any of my other sons, what is he playing at? I do not understand any of this. I suspect I do not wish to. Legolas, what scrape is this now? Are you never to be done with foolishness – when will you grow up? 

I thought your time away might have done that – that was the purpose of sending you to Rivendell, not a punishment for your error, though I know that was your thought. That and separating you from this Silvan admirer. This Silvan who I now find myself dependent on to hear news of you – this Silvan who now seems so preferable to your new companion. This Silvan infatuation from which I so hoped you would detach yourself by a journey alone. This Silvan whom I hoped you would lose interest in when you met the Evenstar. The Evenstar, beautiful as Luthien, whom I hoped you would bring home to our Forest. How I hoped you would marry her. How I hoped for heirs. For elflings. For a chance to learn them, learn you, to see you happy, to see you learn to rule. 

A chance to leave, to go West.

But it was not to be. And then, when I heard you had darted off on some hopeless mission, I comforted myself with the thought that if you returned, you would be adult at last – and if you did not return, we would meet beyond this world one day. 

Cold comfort – oh my son, you would doubtless say cold as I am cold, but I know no other way to be – whenever I reach out to you, you hear criticism for advice, harshness for teasing – and I have never known how to speak love to any of my sons, but all the others had their mother to speak for me. 

I hoped you would come back changed enough that we would be able to learn each other at last. Bitter it was, to find you had indeed changed – and see that there was no time now to learn you. That there was shortly not to be you – that you would be over the Sea or under the earth – I could see it in your eyes. 

Your changeable eyes, so like your mother’s – this winter, so like your mother’s were when you were that little lost elfling who cried and cried beyond hope of comfort, while those who should have cared for you were lost in their own grief – hers at I know not what, mine at loss of her. And when she had gone, did I turn to you – to that bewildered child with her eyes?

Did I ever try to comfort you as I could not her, as none did me? No. I could not bear the sight of you, your grief so like hers, your eyes a reproach for all my failure of promise to her, failure of safety, failure of carefree life - she never wanted this kingdom – failure even of that care any husband should have – I knew she dreaded watching another son die, yet I willed you into being, knowing she willed whatever I did for love of me. And then she left us. 

And I – I did not leave you – I never held you. The prince must learn to grow up, I said. Hide your feelings, I said. So I taught you – do not show fear, do not show pain, stay cold, stay calm, think do not feel, plan not react. And in all these years, I have never thought you listened – but now it seems you did.

This winter – you showed your pain – by fading not by asking for help. You stayed cold, calm, you made your plans, you left. You did not come to me, to your Ada. You turned to Caradhil, as you ever have, and I – I trusted his care for you. As I ever have.

And Caradhil – Caradhil has done as you asked. He has brought you to this city of Men, delivered you into the hands of a dwarf. 

Oh Caradhil. I wonder how you will learn to live with this pain.

Oh my son, where are you? What are you doing? What choices have you made? Travelling with a dwarf? A close companion – that you will not be parted from? How can this be?

_In fairness, it must be said that these dwarves are not as some might remember them from their ill-fated journey through our realm and ill-conduct at the time of the Battle of Five Armies. These dwarves seem to have learnt much of courtesy, craft and respect during the (to them) long years since that time._

I think, Caradhil, you are now trying to be kind. Dwarves have always known much of courtesy, craft and respect – they just only choose to show any of their virtues when they think it worth their while. Everything is for value in their world – not always jewels or gold, they will take other goods, respect, whatever they desire. You must have something they wish for, if they are showing you all these qualities. I wonder what it is? Is the settlement in Ithilien on trade routes? Or some kind of rock they value?

No. No. Almost I feel the ground shake beneath my feet. For there is one thing these dwarves – or rather the leader of these dwarves, and if there is one thing I know about dwarves, it is that they are better trained to lead and obey than any elf, - there is one thing this leader has taken from my elves. My son. 

I do not know what I am dreading. I cannot form the thought into words, cannot even look at the thought, cannot even let a glance slip past it. What does a dwarf want with my son?

Could this dwarf – I must think it – could this dwarf be female? Is that the answer to this? Legolas, no. Please no. How could one ever tell with dwarves? Why would one bother? 

Well, if it is, it is. She will still be mortal. One day, she will die. My son will not. If this is the answer, I can wait. I am an elf. We are good at waiting – we have all the time in the world.

_Lord king, all your loyal elves here greet you, and would have you know we think often of our home in the Greenwood, though we are far away. We hope that none of this news is too displeasing to you, and will abide by any decision you send us – save that we must lose our prince – your son is dear to us, changed by his time with mortals though he is._

 

%%%%%%%%%%

Caradhil sighs again, and rests his head on his hands – changed indeed. He remembers the Legolas who for many, many years was his dear prince, his elfling – skilled fighter, yet silly as any, always happiest when furthest from the court, always ready for wine, laughter, any sport or game. In name he was indeed the leader of their troop, yet for a long while Caradhil has been aware that he himself has been making most of the decisions, that Legolas lacked confidence in his own ability – and over the years he has seen enough to know why. 

That Legolas, that Legolas he understood, he loved – that Legolas was always a simple elf, fond of combing, part of their group in every way. So much so, that he worried when Legolas was sent away alone, how he would cope – an elf does not fare well alone. 

He suspects that, in truth, none of them really understand even now – but they have all seen that glow on Legolas since then. The golden aura that they had previously assumed meant an elf in the early stage of marriage, perhaps planning children. Apparently, it can also mean an elf reunited with a dwarf, he thinks, and for a moment he feels a pang of sympathy for the ageless king, sitting at home, reading this letter, the king whose own golden time is so long past, the father who will not understand his son’s choice, who will see only a deliberate slight in this news coming from another. I tried, my King, he thinks, I tried to have my prince write to you himself, but he hears me not, he thinks of nothing but his love and if neither of you will reach across this breach, as you have not for all these many years – what can I do?

Suddenly, he takes a deep breath. Perhaps there is something he can do. At least he can try – they have all resigned themselves to being unwelcome in the forest after this news is read, so there is in truth little to risk and much to gain. He picks up his pen again.

 

%%%%%%%%%%%%%

_Indeed, my lord king, as I know he is also dear to you, I beg of you to find it in your heart to bid my lord the Prince Legolas of Ithilien and his companion, Gimli son of Gloin, Lord of the Glittering Caves of Aglarond, welcome to your court together. I think you would find your son greatly pleased by such a welcome, and surely you would also rejoice as we do to see him so golden and part of this world once more – for this dwarf-lord has greatly reduced his sea-longing with his talk of travels in these lands, and with his love._

Is this upstart trying to tell me what to do? How to manage my own son? I am – I am grateful. In all these long years, I have had none to talk to of this, my failure, my discontent. Perhaps I should have tried before this, but I am Thranduil. I am the elf-king, alone. I never thought to ask for help, never thought to approach one of this devoted band. I remember there was a time, long ago, when this Caradhil tried to tell me of my son’s thoughts – and I – I threatened him. We do not show weakness gladly, we do not ask for help, we do not like help offered – my son is more like me than either of us is happy with. 

So. My son is happy. Not merely content, not merely distracted, not merely proud of his skill. Happy. Golden. I cannot imagine him – yes, I can. He must look more like his mother than ever. I remember her eyes when first we were wed, how she glowed and sparkled. Does her joy shine on his face – his face which I know is so like my own? 

And what think you of that, Caradhil? Has my son turned from you, rejected your comb, for I know you have long desired to offer it, has he rejected Caradhil for a dwarf? Were it not my son, my pain – I would be tempted to laugh. Caradhil rejected for a dwarf.

My son has – has become golden – for a dwarf.

Yet – how can he? For again, Caradhil is reminding me this dwarf is male. Marriage is for male and female – for begetting of children. I know there are bonds male to male among us, but that is brothers, warriors, friends – it is strong, it may replace a marriage, but it can never be so strong.

But it seems that for my son, my changed-by-mortals son, it is. I can believe anything of dwarves, and even of men – we have some knowledge of Laketown and Dale here – I can only think this is what he means when he keeps reminding me how my son is changed. I do not know how this can be, yet – my son has not gone over the Sea. He lives. I have time. 

I am tempted to still play a waiting game. This dwarf, male or female, will die. Yet – what if my son follows him? All else that is impossible, it seems he will do – why not that? This winter – I thought he would die of grief, without knowing why. Truly, I know that had I not been king, I might have wished to die when his mother left me – if my son feels that – what if I wait again, and it is too late?

This elf, this Caradhil, this Silvan tempter that I sent my son to Imladris to save him from, this well-chosen friend, this leader of my people-in-Ithilien, is right. I have this one chance, by the grace of the Valar, I have a chance to make this right. Much though it will cost me, perhaps I can come to know something of my son.

_My Lord King, my most dear lord King, your elves journey on to our new home, but long to hear that all is well with you and your great kingdom, for each is always in our thoughts._

As you are in my thoughts Caradhil, faced with such an unexpected problem. I will think on your advice. I will wait a while. This dwarf – this dwarf may change. May reveal a less noble side, as dwarves do. 

Why is my son not writing to me himself?

How long will it take him to do so?

 

%%%%%%%%%%%

And before he can give himself time to reflect and fear consequences, Caradhil seals the letter, and goes in search of a king’s messenger to take it.


	19. Chapter 19

Caradhil and Droin have made a pact. They will go together to find their lords, and they will insist on having this conversation. They will not be distracted with tales of happiness, they will not be drawn into old reminiscences, they will sort this out.

Caradhil suspects Droin may be the best of all of them for this – the dwarf is the most organised, efficient being that in all his years he has ever met.

They wait until their lords return from one of their long, leisurely rides – Caradhil presumes they are slow because the dwarf is not confident on a fast horse, Droin presumes it is that the elf will not leave a horse to stand with sweat on him lest he chill while they are otherwise occupied – and, as agreed, walk either side of them, talking furiously, until they have them both in their shared study. They shut the door, and Caradhil leans against it.

“Fuck’s sake, elf, what......?” the lord of Aglarond is not impressed.

Caradhil folds his arms in silence, it is for Droin to deal with his lord. He, himself, looks at his prince, and raises an eyebrow.

“Caradhil, what – what have I done?” the confidence is not as assured as it has seemed these last weeks.

The two conspirators look at each other. Droin makes a gesture indicating Caradhil may speak first, he will add his points later.

“My prince, my lord, we need to know your plans. We need to know whether you will be each coming to your new lands with us, or whether you will be staying here – or if you have visits to make? Doubtless you have discussed these things – but we need to know.”

There is a pause. Caradhil suspects they have not talked of this, have not tried to make plans; he knows his prince is not one to think ahead.

Droin suspects they have not talked much at all; he knows his cousin is – a dwarf who believes deeds speak louder and plainer than words.

“My prince, I also must tell you, I have written to your father as we agreed – “ he is interrupted.

“You what? you fucking what?” the lord of Aglarond is, it seems, even less impressed, “Legolas, you daft sodding elf, what have you agreed?”

Caradhil hesitates for a moment, not sure whether to defend his prince or not, then sees it is not needed.

“Gimli-nin, I told you, I am sure I told you, Caradhil has to tell my Ada where I am, he is still his King.” 

“Well, if he has already written, then he must know where you are going to be so he doesn’t need all this sodding fuss, does he?”

He has a point. Caradhil finds he must answer.

“I know my prince is going with you from here, my lord. I assume he is going to your caves, having heard Droin speak so much of your plans, and of your need for signed contracts. I need to know whether I am still taking my group to Ithilien, whether we are likely to be joined by my prince at any stage, whether I deal with the steward myself or as his deputy, or whether this whole journey was merely a ruse to bring him to you and I am now to take my group back to our Forest.” Caradhil sighs, “I am not trying to be difficult, I need to know. I also need to know if you are likely to be visiting the Forest. And whether any retribution is going to fall on me for my prince’s decisions.”

There is another pause, then Droin adds,

“And, cousin, I need to know how much time you are likely to be with me for. How many powers I need as your deputy. Indeed, I need your permission to write to our kin. You need to write to your parents,” he stops, then adds, “and as our kin are not so noble as your One’s, we need to decide who is writing to our King to tell him you are now related to the Elvenking,” he makes a face which Caradhil has learnt indicates a sarcasm, “for doubtless Thorin will be delighted that you will be able to negotiate better tolls with your father-in-law.”

It breaks the tension, as all four cannot help but laugh. Caradhil and Legolas can only imagine with horror the look on their King’s face at being asked for any such thing.

“Truthfully, my prince, I have not written all that perhaps I should to your father. I have – implied much, stated little. I have told him you are – “ again he is interrupted.

“I do not care. I told you, Caradhil, he is your King, it is your choice what to say, I do not ask you to lie, I do not ask you to tell more than you need.”

Caradhil sighs,

“I have asked him to welcome you. Both.” I have tried. I have tried so hard for you. Please understand. He looks from his prince, cold as he has rarely seen him, to the dwarf-lord, who meets his eyes in understanding and says,

“We’ll leave that for now, then. Love – do not start worrying,” and Caradhil sees a hand steadying his prince, feels cold as for the first time he truly understands that this is no longer his role, that after so many years he is no longer needed, as Gimli turns and continues, “but – beyond now. Droin – write to our kin. Warn them of my news, and then I will also write to them, and to our King. While we are in Rohan, we will see to it that you have full powers as my deputy. I believe mention was made of dividing time fairly evenly between the two of you,” he thinks for a minute, then, “although, by my will, there will be more time in winter in caves than bloody trees.”

Droin nods, “cousin, I think you begin to answer my questions. Although – I should rather like to think of you up a tree in winter,” and the two share a look.

Caradhil is not so happy.

“We do not actually live up trees, you know,” he says, “well, not always. But – I am still going to Ithilien, am I? My prince, what is it that you would have me do?”

Legolas looks at him, and Caradhil’s heart sinks as he sees those eyes and knows he is as helpless as he ever was, oh my elfling what more,

“I – I would have you go to Ithilien as we said, lead these elves. Please. Be what I am not.”

And as the discussion moves on, Caradhil sees the rest of his life stretching before him, vistas of work in this unknown place with no familiar trees. Without his prince.

But – he is still needed, it seems.

 

 

When the time comes to leave Minas Tirith, none of the elves are sorry to bid farewell to that city of stone. They have done their best, it is a greener and fairer place than once it was – but it is a city of Men. They will never be truly welcome, never truly comfortable in such a place. 

Caradhil finds he is not as grieved to lose his prince as he expected. None of them are. It is not possible to be grieved over one so excessively, joyfully, blossomingly happy. Even the king Elessar seems to have forgiven the pair of them for their indiscretion (Caradhil wonders if Droin really did offer a lower than agreed price for the work on the walls and gates – ‘after all, my friend, my cousin hardly personally supervised the work, did he?’) and their farewells are full of promises for the future. 

At the last, Droin turns to Caradhil, and says,

“Master elf, it has been a most – interesting – time. I think both you and I shall be considerably busier than we had thought – and I for one will be in need of a friendship to replace that I have lost. Were I to write and ask your advice – would you give it?”

Caradhil smiles with genuine delight,

“Of course. For I am so well-versed in dwarf-lore, how could I fail to offer you my help,” he meets the other’s eyes, “and likewise, I will need your knowledge of the plants and trees I shall encounter in this strange land to which I am sent leaderless.” And as they laugh, he thinks again, who knew a dwarf could be so easy, so clever, so cunning, so reliable? Who knew a dwarf could be a friend? Who knew?

His prince is, as they have become used to seeing, sharing his horse with his dwarf-lord, but he still comes to touch ears with Caradhil, saying,

“Look after them, Caradhil. I – I will come when I can.”

Caradhil shakes his head,

“No. Do not speak so,” and seeing the fear in those eyes, sighs, “I do not look for you to hasten. And – I would not have you come alone. Even if you could. We will welcome our lords when your other realm allows.” The smile rewards him for his words, and even this most difficult to charm dwarf seems satisfied, so he adds, “Now go. And, my prince, be happy.”

As they leave, followed more slowly by the procession of dwarf ponies, the elves watch for a moment, and Caradhil suspects he is not the only one who has to swallow hard as that golden head catches the sunlight.

He does not turn to look back.

“Be happy my prince. Be happy for this brief lifetime you have chosen.”

 

 

Ithilien is indeed a fair place. They are enchanted by it, they can see why their prince loved it so. They are elves, it is early summer, they need no plans, they wander among the new plants, the old well-known plants, the bushes, the trees, the flowers. What greenery there is, so close to places of so much evil. Planted long ago by Men, yet running wild, forgotten, yet not gone. Who knew? Who knew such beauty was in the wider world?

Caradhil cannot help remember some of Droin’s tales – for all his lack of years, the places he had been put them to shame. Who knew dwarves were so adventurous? Who knew?

They drift, singing, through the miles, not even really aiming for anywhere, no intentions, just – wandering, as elves will. He supposes that at some point they will meet these Men of Gondor who are in this land, at some point he will have to sit down again, as Men like to do, and discuss who owns what, and where they may go, and what they should do, and on, and on. But, for now, just wandering will do. He will claim they are coming to know the land, to understand its needs, to learn its plants and trees, hear its song. Men like such talk from elves, it reassures them that they are the sensible ones, they know more. Caradhil has played the shy, woodland elf many a time, he knows how it should go. Men rarely drive a hard bargain with such ethereal beings. 

Really, it is surprising that some races choose to dispel such myths – what advantage is there in being perceived as stately, wise, all-powerful – Caradhil has never understood Noldor.

 

 

Faramir looks at the elf in front of him, and listens. He is still trying to hide his shock that, instead of Legolas, blond Sindar prince, quiet-spoken yet fierce warrior, whom he was expecting, he is now faced with this – this Caradhil. Flame-haired, Silvan, unknowable, inscrutable, intelligent, wary yet far more dangerous, an air of veiled menace, an air of – mystery which says that all the rumours of elves may be true. From the way they walk, these elves have all known battle, they have that confidence, that sureness that they can take on all the Men in these halls. 

And that is another surprise. Some of these elves are clearly female, yet – armed, dressed as the males. A custom of elves Faramir had heard of, to differentiate only when needful or in formal attire, yet – to one from Gondor, with its old, rigid ways, this is shocking. For this is not the charming deceit of one desperate shield-maiden, ready to resume proper ways when maidenhood is relinquished, this is – he has not the words, but – these elves see in truth no difference, no obvious feminine frailty. That the elf who stands beside Caradhil, who speaks second only to him, is one of these females, yet – yet apparently not his wife – this is worse.

He supposes, from his words, that this Caradhil is he who penned the letter which arrived months ago, telling that ‘as promised, elves of Eryn Lasgalen, which in past times was known as Mirkwood, will be arriving in Ithilien to give aid, to encourage the growing of green things in your fair land.’ The letter was signed by Legolas, Faramir has assumed it was also written by him – but apparently not.

Legolas, he gathers, has been – unwell – this winter past. Legolas, it is smoothly explained to him, has become – and what does this mean? – ‘more than well’ whilst staying in Minas Tirith, but ‘is reluctant to part from his dearest companion, who also is known to you, one Gimli, son of Gloin’, and so has gone to the court ‘of your fair lady’s brother, from whence they will doubtless visit those famous caves’. Yet, his wife is promised, when ‘our dear prince rejoins us, I am confident he will have news of your homeland, which will surely gladden your heart’. 

He notices there is no time given for such an event.

Every time he tries to elicit more detailed information, he is smoothly turned aside, a question asked, a new topic raised, or, once or twice, an obscure elvish proverb invoked.

It is all very odd.

Elves, he supposes, are odd.

He allows the conversation to move on, to touch on matters such as trade, division of labour and land, rights of access and passage, law, and – is this truly an elf, he wonders for a moment – legal status of elves in Ithilien, Men in elvish Ithilien – elvish Ithilien, he wonders, I thought they were simply visiting – the importance of laws pertaining to both being equal, punishments being acceptable to both rulers.

“For an elf,” he is told, “an imprisonment of two or three decades is a light matter, yet I think this might not be so for your people. Similarly, we have met before races of Men who consider forcibly imposed physical deformity a minor reprimand – for elves it could be near fatal. These things must be agreed. If in doubt, we have previously found a stay of punishment until counsel can be sought, is best. I would have your word on that before I can leave here.”

It is not a matter Faramir has considered, yet – as with much of the conversation – the elf’s words seem just and persuasive, and he finds himself agreeing.

Again.

Caradhil finds in his turn, that he likes this man. Softly spoken, yet wise in the manner of Men, willing to listen, appearing – and it may be only an appearance, but even so, it is a good sign – to listen to his wife in all matters. Most unlike all too many Men of Caradhil’s experience.

And so easy to persuade. So keen to appear wise by agreeing, to keep favour with one so obviously of elfkind, so – eager for praise. 

It occurs to Caradhil to wonder if this man’s father and his own King had more in common than the effects of their own strength of mind and control of emotions on their youngest sons. 

 

 

The elves continue to wander Ithilien, encouraging the plants to grow as they have said they will, learning what thrives here, and what does not. No part of the land is left without their help, but – it is not long before they find one particular wooded area, not too near Faramir’s stronghold, that becomes their preferred place. 

They find they are drawn back to these glades, to these trees, to this stream, again and again. In all the seasons of the year, this will be the place they return to. Caradhil decides they should consider making something more permanent here than the camps they have been living in. But – he is an elf. He knows the virtue of patience.

It is discussed, endlessly, during combing sessions.

Agreement is reached. They will talk to their prince, when he comes. None say ‘if he comes’, yet the feeling is behind the words. In the meantime, they plan. 

This is a good place. Summer draws on, and autumn is in the air, a promise of ripening. Their prince has not come.

Their thoughts turn to those they left in the Forest. They find there are others who they miss more than they thought.

Caradhil thinks, if this is to be a home, a colony, we need more than this small group. We need enough to be able to divide yet feel at ease. Elves need more than this number.

He thinks, we need – we need more than just unwed elves. To feel this is a home, not an outpost, we need elflings to make a home for. We need a future.

Or we will dwindle.

I will not have my people dwindle in the lands of Men.

These matters are discussed during combing. The skills they need are listed, those who might be asked are considered. A consensus is reached.

Caradhil finds it is easy to ensure the consensus is in accord with his own thoughts.

 

 

Caradhil is combing Meieriel when they hear the sound. The whole group stills their hands, song dies in their mouths, looks are exchanged. It is. Even among the noise they are making, their ears have picked up a new song approaching, hoofbeats accompanying.

Leisurely.

No hurry.

A most contented joyous song.

“A horse approaches, and that – that is an elven song,” Maegsigil says,  
“Not far.”  
“Not long.”  
“He will be here soon.”

“They,” Caradhil corrects gently, “I do not think it likely that our prince will be alone.”

There is a silence for a moment, an impression of all swallowing, bracing themselves. Never has such a thing been known before. A – a Naug – no, they remind themselves, a dwarf, the other word seems to cause offence – a dwarf. In an elf encampment. 

“We must remember to use Westron,” Meieriel says quietly, and Caradhil realises that she is indeed a most right-thinking elf.

“What?”  
“Why?”  
“When we speak to him, yes, but not all the time.”  
“Surely.”  
“You would not – not all the time?”  
“Not in song?”  
“That – that is not possible.”  
“Not – not when combing – no. Caradhil?”

They look to him for guidance. He thinks a moment, hands moving again, accepts in his own heart that he has left this late because he did not really want to face it at all, so now he must be firm, be definite. He remembers their King’s attitude – it matters less whether you are right or wrong, than whether you hold true to your word. 

Perhaps not always, but on this occasion, yes.

Ironic, it seems to him, that at this moment of all moments, he is looking to his King for guidance. He wonders idly whether his letter was read with any degree of understanding, there has been no answer yet – oh my poor prince, he thinks.

“When he is present, or near. Yes. I think not, not in song, if it is really not possible. Perhaps sometimes – tonight at least. Not when combing. I – I think we can be confident neither he nor our prince will be combing with us,” he closes his eyes again, listening to the pain in all the song, feeling the pain, wishing it was possible not to hurt like this every time, “the group will have to become accustomed to talking over a meal in the evening before combing. Anything we need to discuss with our prince, that is.”

Agreement is reached.

Caradhil finds he is not the only one to guide the group. There are several who have also reached the same conclusions – he is grateful for this. 

The last he comes to is Maegsigil. His heart aches for this elf, even as he uses his comb and hands to follow his voice, to persuade. Maegsigil leans into him, eyes closed, and speaks quietly,

“I will, Caradhil, I will try. I – I just – every time I look at him, I think – why? How – how is it possible for our prince to love – oh Valar – to love one of Durin’s line? After what they did. They woke – I – I cannot even say it. My family. My parents, my brother, my sisters, my love, my – my child. So long ago. So long,” he swallows, and Caradhil continues his soothing, “I know it is so long ago. I know it was not this dwarf, not even his father or his father’s father. But – it hurts so. Every day, Caradhil, every day that goes by, it hurts. And I wish I had the courage to follow them. But – I promised them I would not, I promised I would keep the memory of what we had been alive. I – I had not the courage to stay in our homeland, I could not bear it without them. Your King gave me refuge, and I loved him for it. I love his son. I – I just do not know how to do this. To be with – with it. In the city of Men, it was not so bad. I could pretend. But – here? Caradhil, how? How is it possible?”

Caradhil has no answer, no comfort, for there is no comfort for such a grief. All he can do is hold the other, and show that he does see this pain, he does see how much he is asking.

“If it is too much, I would not ask you to stay. There will be need of letters to our Forest soon enough – and someone will need to take them. If you wish to return – or to give yourself time away – I cannot always have you elsewhere when our prince is here, but I can help lessen the time,” he is trying to say he will do what he can, but – Maegsigil will have to decide. “For now, come with me, stand by me, and welcome our prince.”


	20. Chapter 20

True autumn is upon them. Even in this neglected land, the ages of care long ago can be seen in the fruit, the berries, the nuts, all so bountiful. The chill in the air is almost welcome – to ride out, to become hot with effort becomes a pleasure once again.

At least, for elves.

They return to the camp late in the afternoon, the shadows beginning to gather at the edges of awareness, the hint of frost in months to come in the air. Today has been a good day. 

A very elven day, Caradhil thinks. No purpose to the riding, save that of enjoyment. Much song, much laughter, much sitting in the noon-sun and combing. Much wine. Little food, little talk of weighty matters, just – being.

Those who have stayed behind come to sing them home, to bring them a welcome drink of wine, to bring apples to the horses. To greet them.

From the corner of his eye, Caradhil sees the dwarf – Gimli, he has a name, use it – greet his prince, and a small, unreasonable part of him wonders if they must be so – he has not the word. But – put him down, he wants to say. He is not yours only. He is our prince too. 

Except – he is not. Not really. Not now. He is an elf. This is his time, his golden love time. Caradhil sighs, and meets eyes with others, and realises they all think the same, as their noses twitch like to his. 

Lead them, he tells himself, and makes himself shrug as though it matters not, and begins to share his apple with his horse, as one does in thanks for a day of shared pleasure.

Doubtless the dwarf – Gimli – thinks he speaks quietly. But he is not yet used to elven hearing, it seems, for they all hear his words,

“What the fuck – love, you are not actually doing that? Tell me I am not seeing this. You are putting an apple that – that bloody horse – has slobbered on – in your mouth. Sweet fucking Mahal, now you are going to expect me to kiss you?”

And of course, faces straight, mindless talk continuing, they all listen for the answer,

“Not if you find you can manage without, melethron-nin. But – what upsets you so? Arod is a most lovely horse. You know he has carried us many miles without complaint, he and I have had a perfect day – “ tactless, thinks Caradhil, even I, little as I know of dwarves or love, can see that word perfect is unkind, “a perfect day with our friends. Why would I not see that he has a reward?”

“Give the bloody creature an apple, by all means, but – sharing it? Bad enough you pat the thing, and then bring your hands to my bed, bad enough you hug it, but – for the love of Durin, wash, wash your sweet mouth.”

“But I do not love Durin. Much though I may love his descendent. Can you in truth see not the difference – which would make you feel more appreciated – to be given sustenance, or to share my plate, my cup as I pledge you? Arod is much to me – he has served me well, we have had a day of shared pleasure, I show him my affection by sharing this apple. I will not change my ways now, I have shared apples with horses since I was – an elfling.” Caradhil hears his voice rise in anger, and wonders if this is the moment for such a conversation.

“Well, not anymore, elf. Not if you wish to share more than bloody apples with me.” And now his prince is not the only one who is angry. This has become more important than either of them knew.

“Do not speak to me like that, dwarf. I am Thranduilion, I will do as I wish.” Indeed, he sounds every inch Thranduilion. Oh my prince, is that really a name to invoke at this moment, to this, your beloved? But Caradhil stays silent – one thing he knows of love – it is not for any to come between two who speak thus. His prince continues, “Come Arod, let us find you water now.” And they depart, leaving the dwarf standing.

Caradhil keeps the elves talking, never a difficult feat, keeps the eyes on himself, gives Gimli his privacy, his moment to recover. And as the other elves disperse, he sends his horse to find water, confident she knows where to go and can be trusted to be sensible. For a moment he hesitates, not sure this is a good idea, but – he remembers his prince’s pain last winter, he sees, as perhaps his prince does not, the hurt in the very slope of this dwarf’s shoulders. Walking over to him, keeping his eyes turned away, he speaks, 

“You will have a hard time changing that habit. I taught him that nearly three thousand years ago – it is a Silvan way. No Noldor, no Sindar would do so – save this one. Would you really side with his father, his brothers over us?” Without appearing to look, he watches the defeated slump, the realisation, “Pick your battles more carefully, dwarf – Gimli,” he corrects himself, “and your battlegrounds. It is not easy for a prince to admit himself wrong in front of those he is supposed to govern.” He is about to walk away, when the other answers,

“Happy now, elf? Enjoying the fucking show? Does it please you to see me spoken to thus, to be able to show off your bloody superior knowledge? Fuck’s sake, do you think I don’t know you know him better than I ever will? In one way –“

“And not at all in others,” Caradhil breaks in before this can go too far, “yes, I know. He is your lover, not mine. He could not, I could not. I am an elf. I would not want to have what is yours.” He sighs, “I was trying to explain something. I have spent time in Dale, in Esgaroth, time talking to Men, to dwarves – to your cousin, of whom I am fond, in my own way. I know my prince. Legolas – is not good with words. He is apt to – read things wrong. Read people wrong. Walk away lest he be more hurt, retreat into his anger, his pride lest – lest he be turned away, his pain mocked, his heart rejected,” he hears again the sobs of that elfling holding out a comb so desperately, wishes again he had been able to do more, then turns and meets the eyes of the other, “have you not seen this? Until he was sent to Imladris, he had barely left the Forest. He – does not know other races even as much as I do. And I know little. Our King has kept us safe, kept us away from the world. So – customs that we find normal, you find shocking. There are no doubt things you have done, will do, that mean little to you, but will horrify him.” He shrugs, “The two of you will have to learn how and when to talk about these things. Believe me, for yourself, I would care little, but – I told you – I will not stand idly by and see him hurt again. He needs you. But – all too often he cannot find his words.”

Caradhil walks away. 

There is no feast, no gathering that night. The elves comb and reverie in small groups – none ask where their prince is, none look for the dwarf. There is neither sight nor sound of them.

Caradhil, as his habit is, rises early and walks to the top of an outcrop to look out over his valley. The sun is risen, but still low in the sky, it promises to be another beautiful day. 

His eye is caught by a blur of movement. A horse approaches, and he recognises the rider – how long has his prince been up, how far has he ridden this morning at such speed? As he watches, they slow and Legolas leaps to the ground, then walks beside the horse, talking to him, though Caradhil cannot hear the words. He expects they are concerning the delights of apples, and, perhaps, the foolishness of dwarves. 

From his vantage point, he sees a shorter figure leave the rock he has been huddled against, and walk towards the pair, something held out in his hand. Caradhil cannot hear the words spoken – at least, he chooses not to, chooses to sing not listen – but he watches, and after a moment he sees an apple shared.

A bite for the elf, a bite for the dwarf, a bite for the horse.

Just as it should be.

He smiles, and turns away. He does not wish to see what will come after, the words and touches that show that love is real, is forgiving, is understanding.

He hopes his words will remain in the dwarf’s mind, but be not spoken to his prince.

 

 

As the months pass, the winter comes, the spring, the summer and again the autumn, as the two lords come and go between their realms, as the letters pass between him and Droin, he knows he cannot be there to help every time, but his prince seems happy – perhaps he is learning to speak for himself. 

Perhaps his dwarf is learning to ask him.

As the group hoped, it is agreed, letters are sent, more elves are needed, more come. Some go. The prince has virtually abdicated now – Caradhil finds all decisions are for him to take. He has the prince sign things for Faramir, for Elessar, for his father – and only at this last does he protest,

“Why, Caradhil? Why do you not write to him yourself? He must know, he must know whose hand this is, whose words these are. We know he does. Elves have come from there, they say all are beginning to know how it is. Maegsigil – went back. We know why. We know what he will have said. Why – why do you make me lie to him?”

“He is my King.” Caradhil sighs, for he knows there is much truth in his prince’s words, “if he does not want to acknowledge how things are, who am I to force it? Think – this is his colony, his elves. If you do not rule here, he may send your brothers. Would you do that to us?”

It is unanswerable. 

Of course he will not. Legolas would not leave the elves who have chosen to follow him, who brought him away from the Forest, where he was like to fade, to find his love – he will not leave these elves in the hands of his brothers. 

He has suffered at their hands too often.

Wounds inflicted on an elfling, do not heal, it seems.

And Caradhil feels guilt at invoking the sound of a slapped elfling holding out a comb, desperate.

But – what else can he do?

He must protect his people.

His elves.

They are many now. He cannot put the needs of this one, this one who was once an elfling, above theirs.

“My prince,” he says, “Faramir, Elessar – it is a courtesy. They know how things are, they write to me, they use your name, need your signature, your word on things merely to cover themselves.”

“What do you mean Caradhil, cover themselves? You – you mean to protect themselves? From what?”

Caradhil sighs, how is it possible for the son of his King to be so trusting, so without grasp of the realities?

“They wish to protect themselves from – from the wrath of my King. He is – or will be soon – the ruler of the largest elf-kingdom yet remaining in Middle Earth. You know this. Lord Elrond will depart, the Lady of Lorien will depart, Lord Cirdan has long since ceased to concern himself with matters this side of the mountains. Lord Celeborn – may not depart, but he is unlikely to be strong once his lady is gone. My King – my King has ruled his realm for more than an Age now. He has needed no ring of power, no consort, no wizard’s help. His people love him. He is no ethereal otherworldly elf, concerned only with stars, with dreams. You know this. You know he is a strong King, a good King,” Caradhil pauses, then continues, “whatever else he may or may not be. They cannot ignore his son, however much they know the truth of how things are here.”

Legolas looks at him, those blue eyes cold as they only are when one person is discussed. Cold as the eyes of his father.

“What would you have me do, Caradhil? I know you. I know when you are wanting something from me.”

Caradhil rubs his nose, wonders how to say this, wishes he could still comb his prince, wishes he could persuade him in the way he is most skilled. Thinks.

“I would have you be honest. Has it occurred to you that your father, my King, hides from the truth of your life – which indeed he must know – because it is not you that tells it to him? Has it occurred to you that you hurt him by this? Has it occurred to you that – that perhaps he is not the only one you hurt?”

Legolas looks away, 

“Does it hurt you very much, Caradhil? I had not thought – I – I suppose you do all the work, yet – yet people speak of this as my realm. I – I am sorry. Again.”

Caradhil laughs, and puts a hand out, touches an ear gently,

“Oh my elfling, no. It does not hurt me. This is the agreement we reached long ago, you and I, I do the work, we use your name, your father is kept happy whatever he may know or not know or choose to know. I would not ask you this for me. Indeed,” he pauses again, “for me, this may not be good. I do not want a Sindar sent to rule us – not your brothers for if your name is still here, if you are still here, he will not do that, but there are some Sindar, maybe even some Galadhrim he could send. But – Droin and I – we write. You know this. We – we would not see your dream shattered over such a thing. You – you hurt one close to you by these lies. Yes,” he raises his voice to cover the protest, “I will use the word lies. You are not truth-telling. Think, my prince, my elfling, my sweet Legolas, think. You have been to Erebor. You have stayed under that mountain, been welcomed into a home. And yet – you do not even try to go to your Forest.”

Now he is worried. Has he said too much? It is not as though he knows anything of love. But – he and Droin do indeed write, and they worry.

Legolas is looking at the ground, tracing a shape with his foot, his fingers fidgeting at each other. He looks up at Caradhil,

“Did he ask you to say this? Is this – is this truly –?” he breaks off, and Caradhil sees the suspicion of tears in his eyes.

“No,” he hastens to reassure, “no. I do not know. We do not know. But we worry, Droin and I. And if you cannot answer your own question – then little as I know of love, I know you need to ask him. And if things are not as we fear, then,” he shrugs, “then I suppose we go on with the lies. For as many years as we can.”

“And if things are as you fear?” and how he hates to hear the helplessness in his prince’s voice, “if they are – what is to be done, Caradhil? Ada is not – not going to like this news.”

“No. If things are as I fear, then you will have to make a choice. I will serve you as best I may, as ever I have. So will all your elves. You know this. But – talk. Talk to your love. Then talk to me. We will find a solution.” Caradhil feels a burden settle on his shoulders, as he sees his prince believe his words. He wonders if he has done the right thing, but if not him – who else will say this? Who else will try and broker an understanding between his prince and his King?

For surely an understanding must be reached somehow. This situation cannot continue. Caradhil is torn, wrenched by the need to protect his prince and the need to be honest, loyal to his King. There must be a solution.

His prince looks up at him again,

“I – I thought you wrote to Ada. From Minas Tirith. So long ago it seems – you said you wrote it all.”

“And I did. As much as I then could,” he thinks, “in truth, as much as I could now. I am an elf, Legolas. I have not – I do not want – your knowledge. I wrote. But – when did my King listen to me regarding you? When did my King take the advice of a Silvan regarding his son? I think there are some words that must be said or written by you alone if you wish him to hear them.” He shrugs, “enough. I have said what I wished, you have heard me. It is now for you to decide. Tell me what I need to know, when once you have acted.” And he turns away.

It is not him his prince needs to talk to about this.


	21. Chapter 21

“......Thaun enedh-riw!” Caradhil breaks off his song, and stops to look and think about what his hands are doing. Never, never in all his long years, has he ever thought before about the clothes he wears, the material needed for them, the colours, the stitching, the time, the washing of them. 

He feels ashamed. He will not be admitting this to any, but – how has this never been something of which he has thought? Such a basic, ordinary part of life to have never occurred to him. He wonders how many other assumptions all his existence has been based on, how much more he will need to learn. For, he is finding, to be leader of a colony is to be concerned with more than the hunting, the gathering of plants for food, the finding of water, the making of homes, the negotiations with neighbours. There is trade. There are many things which are perhaps not strictly necessary for life, but which make life more pleasant. Books. Perfumes. Soap. Clothes. Jewellery. Weapons. Tools, for the preparing of food, the planting of forests, the caring for new young shoots. Toys – no elfling under his rule will lack for pastimes. Medicines – elves do not often sicken, but there are moments when these things are needed. The list is endless.

Some of these things they have brought with them – but he is aware that one day, they will need replacing. He is a leader of elves, not short-lived Men. He must think for the long future.

Some of these things they did not consider. They were too used to the comfort of the Halls, the availability of all the things their people have used for so long. The trade so long arranged with the Lake-men.

And for an instant, hands running through hair, he longs for help, for advice. His people – they are quickly becoming his people – trust him. They expect him to have an answer for all their problems, no, they expect him to prevent there being problems. They are used to one who will say ‘do this’, ‘do such’ and not give reasons, not need them to think, one who anticipates their every need and cares for them.

Oh my lord King, he thinks, never have I realised the care you gave us. You care for your people as a father – and at the thought, he has an understanding – no wonder you never were able to be a father to your elfling, the only one born after you were King. You never had time. You could not desert the many for one, one so small, one so hard to reach. 

One who, for whatever reason, and who knows how this began at such long distance, was not able to run to you, to cling, to charm you with those eyes. Those eyes that leave others – Caradhil includes himself and the dwarf in this – others unable to turn away.

The pity of it. His heart aches.

But – oh my lord King, I wish I could write to you, ask your advice, your help. I – I wish I could say how I admire your strength, your wisdom, your leadership. I – I do not know how you could rebuild the kingdom left to you, the people grieving, so many lost, so much in disarray. And all the time, the spiders, the threat from the south of our Forest. I have no need to send out patrols, though I sometimes do for news, I have no need to hoard weapons, though I do from habit, I have no need to fear evil creeping upon me. 

How did you do this? How?

My lord King, I would bow down in your presence with more than the admiration I gave you – great though that always was – now that I begin to understand your task. 

Truly, you are the greatest leader the elves have ever had. 

No mere war-lord, but a King who brought us peace, and plenty, and kept us safe for so long, through so much.

With what help? What help did you have?

Your consort – left. Oh, I understand – as much as any – I know why she left, I know there was such grief at the loss of a child as I cannot imagine, childless as I am. Such pain at the elfling born, so like to he that was lost. Such despair. But – what of you, my King? Did you not feel such pain, such grief?

Yet you stayed with us.

You had no advisors – your father’s most trusted were dead on the plains of Dagorlad with your father, your brothers, your son. Those that were left were of little experience, and grieving – they needed to believe you all-powerful, all-knowing. How could you ask of them the help you must have needed?

You had no ring of power, as other elf-rulers had. You needed it not, it seems, and look – your realm is strong, is safe while theirs – theirs begin to fade with the changing of the world.

Oh my King. 

Always your thoughts are for your people. Even now, when so much has changed – you do not leave. Your wife is in the West, yet you go not to her. You do not leave. 

You cannot. You cannot leave your people, for you do not trust your elder sons, fools, cruel fools as you think them, as they are. And your youngest son – however much you turn away from the truth, you must by now know that he will not return to the Forest.

He will have no heir.

He will not stay in this Middle Earth for long – he has heard the Sea. And besides, you know, I cannot believe one so wise does not know, your son loves a mortal. He is pledged to him. That which you thought you were safe from, that sorrow of the peredhel, has come from the race you have long distrusted. If you let yourself, your heart would break.

But that it broke long ago, cracked by the death of your kin, your son, and in the gamble to repair it, shattered by the birth of this child, the loss of your wife.

Oh my King.

 

 

Caradhil finds he is sitting, staring at nothing, as his thoughts run on. He shakes himself, he is Caradhil. There is much to do, and none other to do it.

He resolves to emulate Men. They have ways of ensuring no leader is indispensible – he supposes they must, they will have learnt that time is too short to not do so.

Of a sudden, he recalls Esgaroth. He does not think he will persuade his elves to – what was the word – vote – for a new leader, not all the while he is here, but – perhaps they can be taught to – vote – on ideas. Decisions. That he need not make them all.

This will need careful thought.

All to have a say, a discussion time for all. 

He muses, staring at the skies as the stars come out above him, and for the first time in a long life, sees them not, so absorbed in these thoughts, these new thoughts, is he.

Perhaps – perhaps during combing. At first. Not just to talk on personal matters – but – what is the word – policy. All sorts of things. He nods, this might work.

He does not like being solely responsible, indispensible. At least – a part of him does, very much, but he is aware that it is not actually a healthy thing for a – he hesitates to use the word kingdom – a – place, a people – to depend entirely on one.

Even when that one is Caradhil.

Besides, if the discussion is over combing – well, there has never yet been such a discussion that did not end with Caradhil’s views becoming the views of all.

But – the mechanism would be in place.

And when the group becomes too big for combing together – there will have to be many groups contributing one to the final group. A change of combing partners. A meeting of – what was that word he heard Droin use once – representatives. 

Decisions will be slow. But – they are elves.

There is always time. They can be patient.

Yes. This might work. All to have a voice, no one to rule alone.

Perhaps some form of emergency committee – Droin’s word again – for those times when decision must be fast. War. Not that he expects war, but – he has lived too long to believe there will never again be need for defence, for resistance to forces from outside.

But – yes. All to have a voice, none to rule alone. All to be equal, he thinks, remembering, and how it hurts even now, an unjust humiliation at the sword point of an angered King. All to be equal, none to be above the rest. All to have such as is necessary, none to be without, as he has seen so often in the lands of Men, none to starve. All to work in the way that is best suited to them.

If he could build such a realm – then indeed he could hold his head high. Then the time of the Silvans would indeed be truly great, their Sindar rulers free to leave them.

And if it is a dream – then it is a good dream. For a dream such as that, even the love that it seems will never now come, the love that tales and songs told him to seek all his life, even that might be well lost for such a dream.

He wonders if there is a word for such a thing as he sings,

“....Thaun enedh-riw!  
Lais-gin gelin eldhenthaid........” 

And makes his way towards the group, for it is combing time. He will not speak today. He will settle these ideas in his own mind, and then – then he will begin to lay them before others, but always in such a way that they find them for themselves, and love them as he begins to.

 

Caradhil does not ask more of this lack of honesty between his prince and his King. He notes that there are letters sent, a visit made. He does not hear any details, he does not ask. 

He notes a certain coolness towards him from the lord Gimli. He wonders what he has done to deserve this – for his part, he has thought they had begun to respect each other. He supposes that dwarves are not easy to understand. 

Except for Droin. Indeed, he wonders whether to ask Droin what he has done to offend, but decides that perhaps that would be to put his friend in a difficult position. He will wait. He is an elf, he has much practise at waiting.

Letters begin to come, official letters, addressed to him. He answers them, he deals with the matters in them. He does not ask. It is not his business to know these things.

He enjoys hearing his King’s words to him. He enjoys writing to his King. He is not made for direct deceit, he is happier with this honesty.

And if he finds himself looking between the words for his King’s praise, advice – what of it?

For many years he has admired his King.

All know this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there will be a "meet the parents" fic between this chapter and the previous, but its not finished yet. & caradhil wouldn't know anyway. will post as a short when it is done......
> 
> now posted. as Edge of a Sword.  
> (higher rating though, I'm afraid.)


	22. Chapter 22

Seasons pass, the years turn.

More elves come. Some with elflings. The colony has a future. They can build with hope, with real hope.

The Men of Ithilien have short memories. They begin to talk of the elves as though they have always been there.

Caradhil remains fond of Faramir. How not? His respect for elves appears to grow with the years.

The Lords of Ithilien and of Aglarond continue to divide their time between their realms, and it is on one of their visits that something happens which will change things.

 

 

From the dais, Caradhil half-sees it. The elfling is crying, suddenly, he does not know why. All turn, but – it is his prince who is there first. The elfling is lifted into his arms, held close, carried away from the eyes of the room. Caradhil watches, only part of his mind on the conversation he continues, as the little one is cuddled, soothed, fussed over. The hair and ears stroked as his prince listens to the story of its woes, some highly unsuitable sweetmeat found and administered. 

He smiles to himself, and thinks, how things come full circle. But, even as he is moving his thoughts on, and hearing more of the marvellous caves (and truly, no elf could out-talk this dwarf on this subject), his prince is at their sides.

“Gimli-nin, this one is in need of more sugar-cakes. I told him you would know exactly where to find them?” a look passes between the two, and the elfling is in the dwarf’s arms, being borne away to – Caradhil supposes towards the kitchens. He looks, puzzled, towards his prince, but Legolas has left the dais and is striding towards an elf.

He reaches out, a hand on shoulder spins Finrusc round, and there is the sound like the crack of a whip as – as Legolas’ hand meets the other’s face. The hall is silent. Such a thing is – unelflike. All look.

“You will never, never do such a thing again,” it is a long time, Caradhil thinks, since he saw his prince in such a fighting rage, so cold, so deadly, “none in my Halls, Finrusc, will speak to an elfling so. Or turn away. Or leave one to cry.” He is breathing hard, and he looks around the assembled elves, “Is that clear? I will not have an elfling hurt. In mind, body, or fea. Not by your hands, not by your words, not by your neglect,” he pauses to ensure they are all attending, “or _I will have your ears._ I am Thranduilion. I am your Lord. You will obey me.” His eyes, cold as glass, sweep over them all, and when he is sure they all attend, he leaves.

Caradhil waits a moment, listening to the reaction, gauging the response, before he follows.

Outside, as chance has it, he finds the dwarf, now unburdened, but, unsurprisingly, lighting his pipe. Caradhil thinks perhaps this would be an easier conversation to have, and goes to him,

“I hesitate to ask, but – his definition of hurt? I am no expert, but – elflings are hard work. None are perfect. I – I cannot expect my elves never to be cross, never to punish disobedience.”

There is a pause, as the dwarf draws on his pipe, and Caradhil hears his words – my elves – and wonders if he will be called to account for that, wonders if that is the sort of comment that has offended – all know that dwarves are proud, are ready to see insult where it is not meant, but,

“Aye, he does know that,” Gimli looks down at the ground, “somewhere inside, he knows that. He – he has heard my parents on the subject of badly behaved dwarrowlings,” he meets Caradhil’s eye, and gives a wry smile, “they are not as convinced that all children are innocent. I cannot think why.”

Even at this moment, Caradhil cannot but smile with him,

“But – ears. You – you know what this means?”

“Aye. He threatened my dwarves with scalping and shaving. You may be able to persuade him to scalping, in the interests of parity,” Gimli looks at Caradhil, long and hard, “but, master elf, do not tell me you, you of all elves, do not understand why he is as he is.”

“I understand. Oh, I understand,” Caradhil sighs, “I just would have preferred him to mention it to me, come to a reasoned agreement, give people warning.”

The dwarf taps out his pipe, “Aye, I said that too. So did Droin, there is probably a long impassioned letter for you somewhere about it. He may have meant to. But then this happened.”

Caradhil thinks,  
“Well, at least now, when I interpret the decree, I will not personally be blamed. Shock value will have done a lot. But – not ears. I cannot rule anywhere with that as punishment. I cannot.” He shudders, and after all these years the horror comes back.

“Ah, well. I had forgot that – oh, don’t look so bloody surprised, Droin told me. I will remind Legolas. He will have forgotten.”

Yes, Caradhil thinks, it was not his ears. His silence must be taken as assent, for the other continues.

“I think – I think for all there is now some kind of peace with his father, it is not – not as you and I know our fathers. And his fucking bastard brothers, there are not words for what I would do to them. Even now, an acknowledgement, an apology would help. But – nothing is ever talked of between them.”

Caradhil shrugs,  
“He is my King, he is not my friend. There is nothing I can do beyond what I have done.” He pauses, then because he feels disloyal, says, “You know, he was not such a very bad father. He – I do not think he ever meant to be cruel.” He is silent for a moment, then decides to add, “I do not know the princes. As children – I remember them much like any other elf. They adored their brother, their mother. But he died, and she left. They – they are not loved by my people. They – I will not defend.”

The dwarf shrugs, he may be going to speak again, but stops, and changes what he is going to say as they see the elfling hurry back to the hall, holding a cake, looking decidedly pleased with himself. They turn, and see Legolas,

“I – I am sorry. I suppose I should apologise, Caradhil. I meant to talk to you first.”

Caradhil looks at those eyes, and thinks, oh no, not again, why can I never say no,

“It matters not. I – think you will need to be realistic. But I gather you have had this conversation before, so – tomorrow will do,” he stops, but no, he must say this, “there is one thing, my prince. I will never, and you cannot make me, not even for you, I will not, can never be party to damage to an elf’s ears. The very thought leaves me ill. I – had you ever had such a thing threatened you might not be so free with your words. Hair grows back, that will do, as you have threatened your subjects in Aglarond. Not ears.”

He looks at his prince, and sees no understanding there,  
“You have forgot,” he has to force himself to keep his voice even, and his hands by his sides, even after so long, he can feel the urge to protect himself, “you have forgot that my ears were threatened once.”

And sees the understanding on his prince’s face,  
“Caradhil, I – I am sorry.”

“Indeed. I wonder if you remember what I was buying? A trinket. Easily lost. A gift. For one who was as an elfling to me.”

And Caradhil turns away.

In his need to be away, to leave this hurt behind, he does not feel the eyes of the dwarf follow him, does not hear the next words spoken, does not hear the anger, perhaps even fear.

“Legolas, have you got something you need to tell me? Of what does he speak?” 

There is silence.

“Droin said – a dagger. His dagger that he carries, with the red jewel for his name. But he spoke of something else. What means he?”

And the woods are quiet as a prince searches for words.

 

 

It is not many days after this, the rift between himself and his prince still unhealed, that Meieriel comes to Caradhil, and asks to speak with him alone. He is surprised – when has she ever needed to ask to speak with him? When have they had things to speak of that others may not hear?

But, when they have walked to a glade away from sharp ears, he finds he is glad of her discretion.

“There has been much talk of elflings recently,” Meieriel begins, and Caradhil cannot stop himself flinching, but she does not notice, so intent on her own thought is she, “Caradhil, I have been thinking on this for long now, and I find I know now what to say, I need you to listen to me,” she pauses, “please. Do not answer me until you have heard all that I would say.”

He nods, worried as to what is coming. Until now, he would have said, had he been forced, that Meieriel was as close as he has to a deputy, as close to his mind as any he can think of. Save a dwarf, and how surprising is that? 

“Like you,” she begins, “I have never found the One I could love. I am alone. Time passes for me as for all. The time of the elves is passing, our people begin to leave or fade. Yet – I have no elfling. I begin to think I never will, and it grieves me. I – I see the elflings here, I watch them, their parents and – and I think I do not wish to be like our prince, forever holding the elflings of others. I would have my own.”

Caradhil understands her longing, oh how he understands, but – what can be done? He waits, listening.

“Caradhil, I – I would have an elfling now. I – you and I are no fools. You know, I know, I need a male for this. I – I have no love. You have no love. For that matter there are many here who do not – perhaps too many have died in battle these last years. I – if it be not your desire, then I will find another, but – you would be a good Ada.” She looks at him, and Caradhil struggles to find words.

“I – Meieriel – I thank you. I – I know not what to say. I – give me time to think – you have thought on this long, and I – have not,” he stops, and tries to assemble his thoughts, turning away and looking into the trees. 

“Think aloud, as elves do,” she says, “I am no fragile bloom, no maiden of the race of Men to be protected. I am Meieriel. You are Caradhil. There are not secrets between us.”

“No, indeed there are not. You have always seemed to me one whose head rules her heart, one who thinks. I – I admit, I am – flattered you would ask this of me,” Caradhil pauses, collecting his thoughts, “but – you must know, I am an elf, I cannot help my first thought – all my years tell me what you suggest cannot be. I – you say you have no love, that I have no love. If – if this you speak of were to happen – what if either of us then met one we could love – we would be heartbroken,” he holds up his hand to forestall her answer, “no, let me think. I see your thinking, that time is not with us. Our people are fading, leaving, so many dead, so many not known, gone. I – in truth, I understand, I understand so well your wish for an elfling, I do,” and as he says the words, he hears a longing in his voice he did not know was so deep, “but – I – I suppose somewhere in me, I wonder if an elfling deserves parents who care for each other as mine did.”

He stops, and looks at her, looks at this brave elf who is daring to think in ways elves have not thought before, who is saying to fate – I will run my life, I will not just wait for what is sent. He thinks over what he has just said, and finds it too simple and too cruel,

“No. No, that is not it, even. I can think of at least one elfling who would have been happier had his Ada not mourned the leaving of his mother so,” oh my sweet prince, he adds in his head, what would your life have been, what would mine have been? “Meieriel, I find – I find I wish you well with your plan, I will have no elf speak against you, but – I do not know if it can be me. I – it is much to ask one so brave, and I will understand if you refuse, but – I find I need to think. I – I had never thought I had the chance of an elfling. I – you know me enough to know I would dearly love an elfling. Yet, I – and who would have thought it – I find Caradhil does still believe in love. I do still hope for my One. I thought I did not, I thought I did not believe there was such a thing for me. I thought I was different,” he pauses, shocked at this revelation, “it seems I am not.”

Meieriel looks at him,  
“Then I thank you for your honesty, for you support. I will wait for your answer – for I do think you would be a good Ada for my elfling – for I do so wish for an elfling, and we – are friends,” she looks at the ground a moment, “I am surprised though. I thought – I think many of us thought – you have already found and lost your One.”

Caradhil reels from the second shock in as many minutes,  
“But – who then do you speak of – Aglarcu? I – may have been that to him, but he never was to me, to my shame – do all think this – and yet trust me?”

She shakes her head and turns away,  
“Oh Caradhil, none think that, we know how that was, we saw your guilt, your shame, we felt your pain,” she hesitates, but as she leaves the clearing says quietly, “do you not know how you love our prince?”

Caradhil stands, listening to the echo of the words as she walks away. I do know, he thinks, I love him as the elfling I have not. I love him as the elfling he was. That is all. Nothing more. I could not love him more.

He remembers a golden day, not really that long ago, a day when something nearly changed. If it had – if it had – then – would that have been this love they speak of? He does not know. But it did not. Nothing changed. His prince did not want that love from him, he wanted only the care his Ada did not show. And – for all he grieved, was deeply hurt – was it that he loved truly – or was it that he wished his prince to desire his combing? 

In all honesty, he can admit to himself, he wanted to be desired by a Sindar. He wanted his prince to care for him as an equal, to share the burden of decision. 

Since he accepted this would never be, he has been happier.

He never thought to fade, to grieve as he has seen others grieve for lost love. He has never felt that love they speak of.

Yet – at last, at last, he admits to himself he always hoped he would.


	23. Chapter 23

It is while he is standing, staring at the stars, wondering how he should respond, trying to imagine holding, loving an elfling of his own, trying to imagine the grief of watching Meieriel cradling another elf’s babe knowing it could have been his, trying to decide if that would be more pain or less than meeting One, and knowing he had given all he is to another already, while these thoughts are going through his mind, that his prince comes to find him.

“Caradhil Finbonaurion, I – I was told you were out here,” he pauses, I – I came to apologise. Again. But – Caradhil are you well?”

Caradhil turns and looks at him, blankly, oh, he thinks, the prince. What now?

“Caradhil? You – you are not yourself. That – that is not your song.”

Caradhil shrugs. He is not aware – as few elves are aware – of what he is singing. Even now, he does not stop to listen to the echo of his notes. Does not recognise the old cradle-song, a song learnt before he can remember, a song learnt in his mother’s arms – a song not many Sindar would know, but that this Sindar was in the care of Silvans all his life.

“Did you want something, Legolas?” he asks, wearily.

“I – I wanted – I was told – to come and speak with you. But – now I am worried about you.”

“Well, that is a new experience for you, Thranduilion,” but for all the words are cold, Caradhil sounds – disinterested.

“You – you are very cross this time. I – I am sorry. I did not – I never do – I am sorry. I – I would not have hurt you.”

Again, Caradhil shrugs, sighing,  
“No. So you have said before. Doubtless, you will say so again. At least when our lord King wounds the least of his subjects, he means it, it is for a purpose. But – I am not out here because of you.” He turns away, adding, “I do have other thoughts, other cares, other elves in my life.”

There is silence for a while. Were Caradhil not so lost in his own thoughts, his own perplexity, he might realise that, by chance, he has used words in a way he never thought to. He has been cold, dismissive, he has turned away; he has spoken and his prince has heard the voice of another.

But many years of practice have taught the correct response to such treatment.

“Caradhil Finbonaurion, I – I came to crave your pardon for my misdeeds. I – I had indeed forgot whence came my comb, for I was lost in my own pain and shame when I knew I had it no longer. And – and when it was returned to me, I knew only the hand that held it, I forgot its long history. I – I cannot find words enough to speak my sorrow at hurting so one who has long cared for me,” he stops, voice trembling, swallows, and continues, “as for the threat to your ears – until now – I – I truly had no idea it was connected to your gift. I heard the tale, I knew of your dagger – I – I am, it seems, a very foolish elf not to have understood. I am sorry. I would have your forgiveness. I – there will be no more talk of harm to ears.”

There is silence. Caradhil is still lost in thought, hearing the words, knowing they mean much, yet – not able to respond. 

“Caradhil, I beg of you. I – I am on my knees to you once again. I know not what more to do. I – I never meant to hurt you. I would not do so. I – I rejoice that you have other elves if it be that they care for you, make you sing, make your world full without me. But – please Caradhil, I need your forgiveness.” 

Oh my prince, my prince, why is it always what you need? Always I have given, but now – now I find I have needs too. I need – and suddenly Caradhil sees what he needs – I need to fill this aching space in my heart where you no longer wish to dwell. I have lost the only elfling I thought I would have, yet – I have a new chance. I can act for myself at last.

He turns swiftly, and pulls the other to his feet,  
“Oh, my dear foolish prince. Get up. Of course I will forgive you. Again. When have I ever not? You are what you are. I know this,” he reaches to touch Legolas’ ears, invites with his eyes and smiles at the familiar touch, so long it has been, “and knowing this, I should have been more clear with you. The comb was, as I said, a gift, there were no expectations, no ties. I am pleased it has come back – I think there is a story there – but perhaps it needs wine or ale to loosen a tongue?” And waits, and watches the blush cover his prince ear-tip to, well, below the neck of his tunic. “Indeed. But – I am an elf. I am patient. One of you will drink too well one of these days.”

“Please – no – Caradhil – do not ask. Please. It – it is not a story that reflects well on me. Or my beloved.” He looks up from the ground, to ask, “And – that I never questioned the payment, the dagger story? That I forgot the threat to you? You can forgive even that?”

Caradhil shrugs,  
“As I said, perhaps I should have been more honest. You are not your father to understand all from so little said, yet even then you were no elfling to protect so. It is past, Legolas, my sweet prince, you are still my prince, I will serve you as I ever have, doubt not my love for you. Come, I would drink tonight – I would see you dance for your beloved beneath the trees, my so-Silvan Sindar.” And I would find one I must speak with, one I find I need more than I knew.

As they walk back to the feasting glade, their hands meet, and both are glad for this reconciliation,

“Caradhil, I have said this before, but – I know not what my life would have been without you. I – you are truly the best of elves, best of friends – I only wish I had a way of repaying you some part of my debt.”

“There is no debt between us, my prince, you know this.” And if there is, Caradhil thinks, I may be at last in need of your help. For though I hope my elves will understand, I suspect not all will be able to, here or in my Forest – and I would dearly love to see my trees once again, one day. 

 

 

The penalty for being leader, Caradhil has learnt, is that one cannot join an evening without all noticing. So it is now, eyes register that he and the prince are no longer at odds, that he is once more seated at his prince’s side, that when his prince rises to dance, Caradhil will remain, drinking and talking with the lord of Aglarond.

“Sorted out now? I told the daft sodding creature to apologise two days ago. Takes him a while to work out his words sometimes. And I’m sure that isn’t right for a bloody elf.”

“Two days?” Caradhil cannot help but ask, “so for a while there, you were expecting me to come back?”

“Oh, for the love of Durin. No, you prideful pointy-ear, no, it took me that long to get the story of this bloody comb. And all the rest of it. I find – I find I owe you an apology, I find I may have been mistaken in you, but – not now. Fuck, I cannot concentrate when he dances like that.” There is a pause, and Caradhil sits in confusion, wondering what he has been suspected of, wondering if he will ever understand, “Sorry, Caradhil, I can think of little else when he is in this mood. I will talk sensibly to you tomorrow. I am glad it is sorted out. And not just because I can see I am going to benefit from his happiness this night.”

Caradhil smiles, finishes his wine, and touches Gimli on the shoulder as he rises,  
“Indeed, I wish you joy. Again. There are, however, things you and I need to find agreement on, things of which I need you to speak for your cousin, but – tomorrow will do.” He meets the other’s eye, and cannot help, “I am sure your flet is as you would wish – we have become accustomed to your needs, but – should you wish for anything – I am sure you can have my prince call out loud enough that we shall know.” And enjoys the blush that can be seen even behind such a beard.

It occurs to him that there is no doubt that Gimli had – not waited – and his prince does not seem to bear any grudge. Perhaps – perhaps that could be so for him, for Meieriel, should they ever meet One. It is a thought to hold on to. This, this decision which seems so momentous, need not mean that love will never come.

He has to believe that.

 

 

Caradhil goes to Meieriel. As he approaches, she stands, and he is able to speak under the cover of the music,

“I – I find I have an answer for you. I –“ he swallows, more nervous than he has been for many years, this is not combing, this is something new, “I –“ he takes her hand, “please, Meieriel. You are very wise. And know me more than I know myself. I can only say yes.”

Their eyes meet, and he sees the same nervous yet hopeful expression in hers as she answers,  
“Come then, let us leave this – drinking and dancing, this feast. We have other concerns.”

And, fingers entwined – and who knew how this would feel? Who knew? – they make their way from the revelry.

They do not realise anyone is watching, do not realise that their prince has flung himself down in his chair, looking for wine, for praise, and that his eye is caught and held. Caradhil leaving with – one. 

It is many years since that has happened. And the words that were spoken earlier reverberate in Legolas’ mind,

‘I do have......other elves in my life.’ 

‘another elf’ perhaps.

And – he wonders why it hurts, even as he feels his beloved’s eyes on him, even as he knows it should not.

Caradhil has never failed him. Never put another before him in all these long years. He remembers a battle, a knife thrown, an elf who died because of his mistake. He reminds himself he would no longer cry out for Caradhil. He reminds himself he has another to guard his back. He reminds himself that his other has needs too, that his love is less secure, more jealous than he had ever imagined. That there has been much talk between them these past few days, and that this new peace between his love and his friend is fragile, and in his hands.

He reminds himself he is not an elfling, to wish for someone to watch over him, and turns to his love with a raised eyebrow,

“It seems Caradhil has – found one to share his comb in privacy tonight. I do hope he is not going to expect me to do any of his ruling tomorrow – I had other plans for us.” And the intake of breath which his dwarf cannot suppress is all the sustenance his heart needs.


	24. Chapter 24

They have drawn the ladder up into the flet with them, that none will follow, for they wish to be alone. They sit, and look at each other, both now unsure what to do, what to say. After a moment, Caradhil takes a breath, he feels it is for him to speak,

“Meieriel, I – I thought much over what you said. I found you were right in many things. Like you, I have no love, like you, I greatly long for an elfling. I – you were wrong when you thought I had loved and lost, but – I can see why you might think this. It has come to me that perhaps others have thought this – there was a time when I wondered. But – no. I am like to you in this. I – I know as little as any elf can.”

He stops, thinking, enjoying the feel of her hand, the pressure that says she understands, the thumb running over his fingers, even as he finds he is circling his thumb in her palm. Gently, hesitantly, he reaches out to brush his other hand through her hair, to stroke an ear-tip, and speaks again,

“I – I would, if you would agree, I would vow to comb with you, whenever you wish it, to be a father to the elfling you will bear, to protect you and – and the elfling,” his voice falters with hope, with need, “in peace or in battle, with my bow, with my hands, with my body. I would vow to care for you and this elfling; to sing with you, to tend you when you are in need, to comfort when you are sad. I would vow to share your life, to share the love we would feel for this elfling. I would vow to stay together, as long as this or any future elfling would need us. I would – I would not stop you combing with your group, I know that is not how it is between us – but I would have us comb together and with this elfling as often as – as we could.”

And for a moment, he knows fear as he waits for her answer, but she is reaching out to touch his ear, to run fingers through his hair, as she says,  
“I would have all that, and I would vow the same to you.”

Words spoken, they look at each other once more. Caradhil bites his lip, and helplessly says,  
“But – Meieriel – I – I do not know how this is supposed to be? I – I do not know.” He can feel his ears flush, the longing is so strong, but – he is an elf. He does not know.

“I – I neither,” she confesses, and her lip too is looking red with teeth worrying at it, “but – Caradhil, we are not fools. I – I suppose – elves are only animals. We have lived long enough in the Forest to know something – I – I suppose –“she breaks off to shrug, as lost as he is, then, “oh come, you are Caradhil. Comb me. And – and I will comb you after.”

And indeed, as he moves his comb through her hair, he finds this is the best way for elves to approach this – this new need – for as she lies back against him, as his comb follows her hair, he finds he can lean down to that bitten lip and kiss gently. She finds she can reach and begin to loosen the ties of his clothes, and soon – soon even elves know what it is they should do.

 

Later, they lie, curled together, and as Meieriel does indeed comb him, Caradhil is moved to speak again,  
“I – I did not know. But now I do. And – Meieriel, I know we do not love as – as we have been told true love is – but – this is more than – than combmates. This that I feel. Tell me it is so for you?”

She hesitates,  
“Yes, it is more than combmates. I – I still do not think it is love – because we would have known. Surely. I – do not misunderstand me, Caradhil, this is much. I – care for you now more than I did. We – are not bound but – I have not the word.”

Caradhil looks at her, and thinks, I do not know the word, but I know this is real. Slightly awkwardly, he reaches to place his hand over hers, and says,

“I – I would stay with you. I would be with you like this again. I – I do not have words, but – I – I have heard other races talk of – of this as though it were – nothing – I – I cannot feel that.”

She shrugs,  
“Why would you? We are not other races. We are elves, you and I. We – we may have managed to change a little, but – we are still elves, not mortals.”

Caradhil nods slowly, thinking I was right, she is close to my mind. Closer now, perhaps. 

They lie, watching the shadows of the leaves in starlight, hands tracing through each other’s hair, stroking ears, drifting, until Caradhil thinks to ask,

“Is it – is it as they say? Can you – do you know – will there be an elfling?” then worries how this may sound, “I – I just wondered. I – I would not have this undone, nor – nor is it only –“

Meieriel laughs,   
“Never have I known Caradhil so hesitant of speech. I – am not sure. I – maybe. But – perhaps we should not just hope? perhaps –“ her hands trace downwards, and she leans in to kiss once more.

As she pulls back to breathe, Caradhil lets his hands continue moving over her, and asks, “Again? Yes?” and as their eyes meet, he can see the same desire, the same need in hers as is in his, “I – I think we may need to practice,” he says, and feels her laugh with him as she answers,

“Yes. I – I think if you had a little practice our prince might not be the only noisy wood-elf in Ithilien, Caradhil.” And although he knows their prince is already not the only noisy wood-elf, although he doubts they will ever be able to practise away the lack of love between them, Caradhil finds he is very happy indeed that she should say so.

 

 

It is some two days later, when there has been much practise and Meieriel is now sure that there will be an elfling, that they leave the flet. In all this time, it now occurs to Caradhil, none has sought them, none has appeared to need them. He wonders if it has simply been a quiet two days – although, he reflects contentedly, it was not quiet on their flet – or if some other has been forced to make the small decisions which so often seem to be his.

Once on the ground, they part, Meieriel to her tree seedlings, Caradhil to his – he likes the word – study. He suspects his friend Droin would not recognise it as a study, and would despair at the way in which he keeps his records, but – he is proud of his order and the speed with which he can find any document. 

Or at least, he reflects, he was. Seeing who appears to have been using the desk in his absence, he wonders whether this will still be the case, and does not notice his own song,   
“Enthas ermin men guiad..........”

The dwarf-lord looks at him as he pours himself wine from the flagon which is always ready,  
“Oh, you have surfaced. About bloody time. I thought you had much you needed to discuss with me?” he smiles, suddenly, “do not worry, elf, I have not made a mess of your precious system – Droin has me better trained than that. Better trained than you have my daft love – he has been off, singing to bloody trees. Leaving me to deal with all this crap. Which seems unfair, when I am the one who has bothered to leave a deputy I can trust not to go off – doing whatever you have been doing up a tree for the last two days.” He looks at Caradhil, who is very interested in a piece of paper he has found, and is also hiding behind his drink, “bloody tree-shagging elves. I suppose I should wish you joy – or whatever your custom is?”

And now Caradhil is glad he has the chance to practise saying this to one who is perhaps most likely to understand and least likely to really care,

“Joy perhaps – but not in the way you mean. We – we are not bound, not joined in love. But – we – we will be parents in due time.”

“Oh. Elves can do this? I – was under the impression not.”

It occurs to Caradhil that the tone of voice is as one wondering if he has been lied to,

“It seems we can. Who knew? – For all my years I too have believed not. Leaving the Forest seems to be changing we elves of Ithilien in many ways,” he smiles and raising his glass to the other, adds, “after all, if our prince can love in a way we did not know was possible, perhaps the rest of us can change also. I need not explain myself to you – but – is it so strange that we should wish for an elfling, yet have never met One we can love as you two do?”

Gimli stares at him,  
“Strange? To those of us who are not bloody elves – no. It is not something a dwarf would do, but Men, and I suppose hobbits, seem to easy enough. I am surprised that elves can learn, can change, that is all.”

“What, you thought you had the only one that can? Or – that you are the only one who could persuade one of us? My lord of Aglarond, you are not that exceptionally skilled.” And Caradhil is aware that the glow, the pride in his voice speaks volumes to this experienced dwarf. This dwarf who looks at him with a new respect, and answers,

“Fucking Mahal in a snow storm. You mean it, don’t you? Good for you, Caradhil. I wish you joy indeed. I just hope you can use your famous persuasion to ensure the rest of your elves agree – no, I have no reason to think they will not. Except – they have assumed the old rules apply. I warn you.” He looks down, and finds a pile of paper, “Enough. Here is all the bloody crap dear Faramir insists on sending you, get reading. I will leave you to it for a while. And – I will begin spreading what you have told me? Yes. Shocking news often comes easier from one who is not the main interest.”

Caradhil sits to read, wondering how much of this he will manage to absorb, wondering how many elves will be wandering in to – talk casually, to look at his braids. His braids. He runs his hand over them, feeling the strangeness – it has been more than three thousand years he has worn archer’s braids, braids of an unwed elf. And now – now he is still an archer, but his braids are changed. Not as his prince’s are changed, but to something new. Something which says, not married, not unwed, not widowed. And, for those who look carefully, a twist which says, father of an unborn elfling.

It feels odd. To change something so long known. And – to change in such a way. To have to sit and talk and think, what new form can this take to show this new thing that we have made? 

It is long since his people, since Silvans, created new things. Too long perhaps. Too long, he thinks, have we trusted in the wisdom of ages, too long have we followed our Sindar rulers blindly. For – not all Sindar are wise, not all are more cunning than we.

Too long have we rested content. 

Is it truly the time of the elves that is past?

Or is it the time of the Noldor, the Sindar?

Is this age, this age for us, in alliance with Men, as we are here learning to live – is this age for the Silvans?

“Enthas ermin men guiad......”


	25. Chapter 25

Caradhil lies, his head on his arm, body curled round Meieriel, one hand stroking her ear, the other protectively holding the swell of the unborn elfling, as they have become used to reverie these months.

Just them.

It is strange, he thinks, how quickly they have changed habits of millennia, how quickly it has become normal to be together, to comb together, to lie like this. Something he never even knew he wanted feels so right.

They do not speak of love, this is not the burning, soul-consuming, all-else-surpassing love of which the songs and tales speak. But – it is more than friendship, more than combmates. It is – something else. This comfort in each other’s arms, this need to be alone together, this trust, this reliance. 

Perhaps it is a sort of love.

And if the love he has always been told to seek is not to be, as it seems it is not, this is much.

It is good, he thinks, even without the elfling which will soon be born, this closeness is worth the loss of some of those hours of combing, worth the comments, the shock on some faces, the disapproval of some elves. 

The disapproval of his prince, even. He remembers with a twitch of his nose, the horror on Legolas’ face, when, offering congratulations, he looked more closely at Caradhil’s braids.

“Caradhil – what – what are those braids?” the confusion plain in his voice, “I – I thought to see marriage braids at last – but – those are not.”

“No. I am not married, my prince. I am as unwed as ever.” He had sighed, becoming bored of this speech, wondering why the dwarf had not spared him this, “I do not love Meieriel, nor she me. We simply – desire an elfling. Hence this twist,” he pointed.

And watched the horror grow. The disapproval where he least expected to see it.

“But – but elves – elves cannot do such a thing. It – it is wrong. You – you will – how will you love – when you meet – your love – how? This – this is for short-lived mortals only. Caradhil – you cannot do this.”

He sighed again, began to feel angry,  
“Who are you to tell me what elves can or cannot do in love? Or not in love? I seem to remember telling you there is no more than combing between males for elves – yet you prove me wrong, loudly, day after day, night after night. You have no right to rebuke me. You are not my group leader, you do not comb with me. Thranduilion, you may be called prince, by my courtesy, but you do not rule me. Would you really condemn me to wait another thousand years for one to love, for the chance of an elfling? When all can see the world is changing, our people begin to leave, to dwindle? Why would you do that to me?”

His anger did not silence the other, for the first time Legolas argued, he would not simply believe the words of Caradhil, and he missed his comb, his skill, but – he did not want to charm again, he wanted to be understood,

“You – you will hurt this elfling. If you do not love her – you will hurt the elfling – Caradhil – no. Please. You – you must love the mother of your child. You – you cannot leave your elfling when – when love comes. Please. I – I cannot watch you do this. It is wrong.”

And suddenly he understood. This was not a wrathful prince, this was not a shocked upholder of the proprietries, this – this was a frightened elfling, begging for reassurance once again. And his heart ached again, oh my King, is all still not resolved? Will it never be well between you? Why can I not help you both, so much I care for each of you, so similar you are? 

But – he cannot, he knows he cannot. And he has other concerns now.

“It is not wrong. There are no lies here, no deceptions. We both wish for the same. Meieriel is as old as I, wiser than I.” He reached out to his prince, turning him back, longing to pull him close, and as his dear prince looked at him, his eyes showing not anger, but fear and pain, he allowed himself to touch those ears, to offer reassurance, “I will never walk away from my elfling. Not for anything. We have vowed to care for this little one, as long as we are needed. Trust me. Legolas, have you ever, ever known me not to keep my word, have you ever known me to leave an elfling in need?”

And as the other seemed to believe him, seemed able to trust again, he added,  
“It seems love is not for me. I – I think I must have missed my chance, I know not when. Yet – I do not wish to be always alone. And – I look at mortals, and I wonder – why cannot elves choose their ways to live?”

He felt his prince nod his head in agreement, and   
“You are right. I am sorry, Finbonaurion, you deserve more trust from me. Especially from me. It is just – you do not know my whole story. I – I acted in a way elves should not – and – and it nearly led me to fade. I – I know it is different – I just –“

“You tell me this as news? I saw you that winter. I may not know all, but I know enough. But – my prince – you are you, you were exhausted, bewildered, afraid, alone, in love. I am none of those things. I am Caradhil. She is Meieriel. We know what we do. And I would have your support against those foolish enough to think we do not.”

“Then – you have it. Mine and my lord’s. And perhaps it will go some way to paying my debt to you – although I do not in truth think that possible.”

“No. There is no debt between us. You are my prince. That is all the truth there needs be.”

And indeed, his prince has made it clear that any who disapprove may do well to consider whether their future truly lies in Ithilien. So there have been one or two who have returned to the Forest even, so unable to accept this which they have decided on. In his mind he shrugs, what of it? They are wrong. This – this hurts none. None are deceived by this, both know it for what it is. The elfling will be loved, oh so loved, they have vowed to care for it together. How can this be wrong?

He is Caradhil. She is Meieriel. Their fates are their own.

 

 

They are lying together, Caradhil lost in dreams of his Forest, when Meieriel starts up, pulling him with her, out of reverie into the present.

“Caradhil, now,” and as he blinks, slowly focusing, trying to understand, she shakes him, “the elfling. Now. Help me.”

And his heart leaps. 

As though remembering, as though taught, they know what to do. They know to throw aside their tunics, Meieriel’s over-robe, for the comfort of skin, they know that she must kneel, holding his shoulders for the support, the strength in him needed as she bears down, his arms around her giving her the security she needs for those moments as the elfling slips free from her body. 

And when the elfling is there, he knows to put it straight into her arms, that she can begin to know it, to offer it milk and comfort, even as he guides her to rest against a tree, even as he bites through and ties off the cord that joins it to her. He knows to see that the afterbirth is complete, to carry it upwind that any predator will find it not the child, not his child.

After a while, the elfling has stopped feeding and is looking at them, with such wide eyes. Learning them, even as they are gazing back, learning it, trying to hear its name.

“Tegylwen,” Meieriel says,

“Tegylwen Meierieliel,” Caradhil agrees.

She laughs,  
“Now your Ada is being silly. That sounds absurd. Caradhiliel. Much better.”

“But – she is a daughter. Your daughter,” Caradhil hears himself and is, for a moment, horrified, then amused, “even now, I still look to the old ways, the traditional ways. You are right. Caradhiliel. Perhaps – do you think – Meierielion one day?”

She smiles at him,   
“Yes, indeed. One day. But – now –“

He nods, “I know, now, you need to bathe.” And he places one arm around her shoulders, one under her knees, and as she holds the elfling – Tegylwen – he carries his family to the stream.

 

 

Time passes. They do not notice, absorbed as they are in each other, in Tegylwen. Elflings, it seems, do require a lot of attention. Or, Caradhil thinks, possibly elf-parents simply need to give a lot of attention. Possibly it is just them, they are besotted in their happiness – then he remembers Brethylf, and thinks, no, not just us. 

Above them the moon changes, but as they show their daughter the stars, the moon, the leaves, they do not care. Any more than she cares about the stars, the moon, the leaves, the songs, the tales. She is too young to care about anything except Ada, and Naneth, and milk, and comfort.

They know this. Really, they know this. But – they have each waited so long, they are not going to let the knowledge of their absurdity stop them enjoying every moment.

In all this time, they have barely spoken to another. Once or twice Caradhil has been forced to go to find food, to find cloths, and has spoken as briefly as possible to those he met. So – there is no doubt as to where they are and why, but – they are elves. This is how things should be. Time enough to leave this idyll behind; for now, for now, they will stay.

They cannot stay like this forever. The world comes back.

He stands at the edge of the clearing, waiting for them to notice him – they are elves, this does not take long.

“Caradhil Finbonaurion, Meieriel Doronweniel, I rejoice in your happiness,” he uses the old, formal words, “may I meet your elfling?”

Caradhil looks up, and wonders that he has taken so long to react to the presence of one so long of such importance to him, 

“My prince, we greet you. This is Tegylwen Caradhiliel,” he notes the blink of surprise at the name, but is pleased there is no more, “she – she is perfect. And I am not in any way biased.”

Legolas kneels, and looks at the elfling most intently. He holds out a finger, and she takes it, looks at him for a moment, then lets go and closes her eyes in dismissal. He smiles,

“And clearly she is wiser than her Ada. She has no patience with silly princes. I – I have not yet a gift for her, but now I have seen her, I can promise you there will be one – but – I shall need to consult. I – I am here, as ever, to ask your forgiveness, and beg a favour, Caradhil, Meieriel.” He pauses, and seeing in their eyes that they are waiting, perhaps suspecting what he is going to say, continues, “I – we – have been here several months now. We – I have stayed longer than we planned – but – we cannot stay forever. And, in truth, you do not want me to continue trying to do your work, Caradhil. I am woefully aware I am no replacement, but there seems to be no-one else who will even contemplate it. You – you have made yourself too necessary. I suppose it is the way of elf-kings.” He sighs, and before they can answer, looks at Caradhil almost pleadingly, “but – Caradhil – do not – I should not say this – but – do not become a king – do not hurt this little one.”

Caradhil feels Meieriel’s anger, but before she can begin to rebuke his prince, he puts his hand on hers, and speaks,

“My prince, I would never do such a thing. You cannot need to ask me – me – this?” he looks at Meieriel, “I suppose it is time to rejoin the group, to work. Your trees will be missing you as much as my – paperwork,” and how he wishes Droin had never taught him the importance of such a thing, “my paperwork misses me. The only question for us to settle, is which is Tegylwen going to learn first?” He shrugs at their surprised faces, “I have not waited all these years, chosen to be as no elf has before, ignored the comments, faced down the disapproval, simply to hand my elfling to some nurse. If she cannot help you with seedlings – and I know she will be not of much use for some years – then she will have to learn to charm those I deal with. Or eat my papers. That would be fine too.”

Legolas looks at the ground,  
“Aye,” he says softly, and both elves wonder if he knows the dwarfism he uses, “aye, I should have known you would never do that.” He rises, still not meeting their eyes, and Caradhil suspects he is trying to conceal the tears in his own, “I will leave you. But – would you join the group for a meal this night? I – we – will not depart until you are ready for us to go, but – I wanted to speak with you.” He bows in farewell, and leaves them.

“Think you we can really make such a scheme work?” Meieriel asks, “I like it, I am just – dubious. Other elves may see a criticism.”

Caradhil shrugs again,  
“There is not one meant. They can do as they will. I only know what I wish, what I mean to do. I – I do not ask you to take her with you if it pleases you not, I will have her on my lap all the time if that is what you desire. I only know I cannot leave her with another. And as for other elves – I am not others. I am Caradhil. I will do as I choose. Or they can find a new leader, and I wish them luck.”

She laughs,  
“There indeed you have a point. There is no other, and you well know it. Well, I will try my part – and we shall see. I also have waited long, defied much for her sake. I am Meieriel. I also shall do as I choose – though it may not always be as Caradhil would have me choose.”

“That I know,” he looks down at Tegylwen, “and what joy it will be when there are three of us able to speak so.” 

 

But – it is a joy. Not unmitigated, there are moments when Caradhil misses that small bundle, who was content wherever she was put so long as his voice – or Meieriel’s – was near. He cannot help it, when he has a small elfling with piercing demands, with a temper to match his, with determination to match her mother’s and sadly without the patience of either of them – then indeed, he misses the ease of a baby. 

However, when his daughter – how he loves the words even – when his daughter decrees the weather is too good for work – or too wet – or too cold – too sunny – too snowy – too – any word she can think of – and he must – stop – come – ride – walk – swim – sing – snowball – whatever she desires – then, then Caradhil cannot but delight in the only one who can command him thus. And he learns that paperwork can wait. Can be done in the hours when a small elfling is at rest, even if this means working by less light than he needs, or with one arm as the other is a pillow. 

He learns that – and who knew – nearly all the elves he must deal with, many of the Men, and, greatest surprise of all, all the dwarves, are – not quite as helpless in the face of her determination as he – but they are far more likely to agree to his most outrageous demands when she is near. At least, if they have seen her distress when they refuse him they will think twice another time. If she looks at them and says, in that voice which to Caradhil is as the sweetest music he has ever heard, ‘why are you not agreeing with Ada? Ada knows more than anyone’ there are not many who will have the courage to disagree.

Caradhil is not above using this.

Meieriel laughs at him,  
“So, to make your negotiations easier, are we to have another elfling when this one is grown too old to charm?” she asks.

He looks at her, and since he knows that, of all elves, she can read his thoughts so plainly in his eyes, since there is no point in trying to dissemble, answers,

“Not to make negotiations easier. Not when this one is too old to charm – although, in truth, I fear she will never be too old to charm her foolish Ada – Meieriel, you know, I know you know, I would have another elfling with you whenever you desire it. It did not seem right to me to ask it of you – though I have been hoping,” he reaches out, and runs his hand through her hair, stroking her ear, wondering if he is pushing his luck, asking for too much.

But her hand echoes his gesture, and she is smiling, saying,  
“I wondered. I just cannot get used to this shy Caradhil. So slow to make his wants known – you are very different.”

He shrugs,  
“Ah, but I learnt long ago I cannot persuade you to anything using only charm and my comb. I must use reason with you and of all things this is the most unreasonable. So – I wait. I can be patient when I need, I am an elf.”

“I too am an elf, but – tonight I do not feel patient,” she pulls him to her, adding, “and our Tegylwen is happily beyond the age of falling from reverie at the slightest sound.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before anyone says it, I do indeed know, most (all?) human babies are not born so easily. however. these are elves. they do everything else better, and quicker and with more style, so I don't see why not.  
> canonically, I think I have read that elves are supposed to be pre-lapsarian, hence would have no pain in childbirth, as sex is for procreation only.   
> or, another point, elflings take longer to talk etc which would imply their heads/brains are perhaps smaller at birth.


	26. Chapter 26

What would I do without the enquiring minds of dwarves? Caradhil asks himself again. I wrote, saying in passing that I wondered, as I had never wondered before, not only how cloth was made, but how it could be so many colours. He – my dear Droin – one of the few to whom I now dare reveal such ignorance, for Caradhil must not be seen to be ignorant lest my elves find their world trembling – does not just answer briefly or in passing, or tell me he has no knowledge either – for this is no more his trade than mine. No, my dear Droin seeks out those who can tell him. He finds out. He writes to me with all the knowledge. 

Yet, he asks nothing in return.

At least, Caradhil laughs to himself, he is cunning enough not to appear to ask. He will wait until there is something he also needs to know, some tale, some myth, perhaps some plant-lore, some history – there will be something. Something of which I know. And then he will write to me and ask. 

That is how it is between us. Who knew an elf and a dwarf could rely upon each other so? Who knew?

Well, he supposes there are two who knew. And, it occurs to him, once there were two others – for have not all heard of Celembrimbor and Narvi?

Perhaps the age-old mistrust is not so very old after all. Not as elves count these things. Perhaps along the way there have been many such – for none will know of Droin and I, we are not the stuff of legend, of tales. 

This, though, this is interesting. This talk of dyes. We have many of these plants. Droin says they dye things other than cloth. He speaks of barbaric customs of other lands, of dyeing of hair, painting of skin – though why that is barbaric and the inkings he and so many of his race wear is not, I do not understand, Caradhil muses. Hair. Now that is a thought.

What, he wonders, what if at a glance none could tell the lineage of an elf? If my prince could bear the truth of his heart upon his shoulders, and be as red as any Silvan. If – if one as wise as Meieriel could be dark as Noldor. One as cold and unforgiving as Maegsigil – poor Maegsigil – be blond as Sindar. Or – one need not even be true to one’s heart. 

And this. This I like, he thinks. This will I have. And the thought of it makes his song joyful,  
“Enthas ermin men guiad......”

Quietly, over some months – for time is not at issue here – he begins his preparations. He acquires this – this indigofera tinctoria. He thinks. 

And then, then he begins his transformation.

 

It is complete. He is pleased with the effect, but he admits to himself he is a little unsure of the reception which will greet him as he walks to where the evening gathering will be. Today, today was a day he was alone, so of course the first to come to him, to greet him, is his dearest Tegylwen. 

And swept into his arms, busily fussing with his ears and trailing hair, joining his song without thinking, as he does the same to her, she notices nothing, and if she did, she is still small enough that nothing Ada does could ever be wrong. Meieriel notices – how not – but must feel that this is not part of their agreement, for she simply raises an eyebrow and says nothing. 

He can feel others looking, noticing, perhaps wishing to speak, but – he is Caradhil. None wishes to call down his wrath. None dare.

Except one. One who has never fully acquired the understanding of elven ways, to whom hair is simply – hair.

“Master Caradhil,” he says, “why such stripes? Is this of some significance, which I, as a dwarf, cannot read?”

Caradhil looks at him and smiles,   
“Nay, except that it has told me who dares question my actions – which is of great interest to me. I simply – desired a change. Three thousand years is a long time to have the same colour hair, master dwarf, and having had such joy from changing my braids – I find I am enamoured of these things.” He pauses, listening to the change in song, to the whispered words, “I am minded to ask you to tell me more of your inkings even, and I have heard tell of such things as temporary patterning, or – what was the word – piercing through parts of the face or body. I think it is time elves – played more.”

Now, now there is more than whispers, there is – most shocking of all at a gathering of elves – there is silence. Then Finrusc, it is always, Caradhil thinks later, always Finrusc, releases the tide of words,

“Piercing – inkings – that – that is unelflike.”  
“Blue hair streaks – is odd,”  
“Blue – black say rather,”  
“Black as Noldor,”  
“Forbidden black,”  
“Will it stay?”  
“Is it forever?”  
“How?”  
“Why? In truth, Caradhil, why?”  
“But – blue?”

“Blue because – because I do not wish to look Noldor or Sindar. I am Silvan and proud to be so. Think of my name – what colour than red could I be? But – I like blue. So – streaks it is.” He pauses, and looks at the questioners, “no, it will not stay forever. Unless I choose to keep it so. It will fade with time, with washing. Black is possible, blond, brown, or – for those not already lucky enough to be so – red.” He looks challengingly at the prince, sitting so still, so quiet, but those eyes do not meet his own, there is a small shake of the head, and,

“Do not you look at me, Caradhil. Do as you will, but – I will not change my hair. A hundred years ago – indeed I would, with joy. Now – now I think I had best not.”

“Best fucking not indeed, elf. Have fun, Caradhil, and I will tell you all I can of inkings, and such. But leave my love’s hair alone,” and Caradhil is glad he has learnt to tell when Gimli is at least partially laughing, for the words sound vehement enough that an axe might be in his hand.

The twitterings, and discussion continues, some are shocked mildly, enjoyably, some more deeply. Some are intrigued and wish to hear more. 

But – as ever – Finrusc must return to his first thought,  
“Very well, this is just fun, just Caradhil. But – this talk of piercing, of inkings – tell me you jest? That – that would be too much. Unelflike.”  
“He is right.”  
“No elf could do so.”  
“No indeed.”  
“Not something so permanent.”  
“No.”  
“It would be wrong.”  
“Unelflike.”  
“No elf.”

In truth, Caradhil, though interested, has not had serious thoughts on such a subject, and is reminding himself so before, in his annoyance at such thinking, he speaks out and commits to something he has not thought through. But, from the corner of his eye he notices a movement. Without obviously turning, he focuses, and sees that Gimli is holding Legolas’ hand, in a restraining way. He sees that flush beginning, and realises that somehow he has started more than he knew. Oh my prince, he thinks, oh my prince what have you done? I thought – I thought you no longer swam with us, stripped without thought with us for the sake of your beloved’s pride and jealous nature. Is this not all?

“No true elf could.”  
“No. It is – forbidden.”

Is it, thinks Caradhil, by whom? I have never heard so.

“To change forever is to step away from the Valar.”  
“If elves were meant to be so marked, we would be born that way.”  
“It may be well enough for les – other races, but not elves.”

That, he supposes, was an attempt at tact. Someone has remembered the listening dwarf.

“Unelflike.”  
“It is not our custom.”

Suddenly his prince stands, wrenching his hand from his lover’s, and those blue eyes, cold as they can be, rake over the group,  
“Unelflike? No true elf? Wrong? Forbidden? Well enough for other races? Is that so? Then – then you will be wishing to leave a place ruled by one such. You will not stay here in the land of Legolas Thranduilion, consort of Aglarond. For I have, if your words be true, I have stepped away from the Valar in this way, as in others, from the whispers I have heard. But – never before have I heard them here. In my land. Among my people, my friends, my group as I thought you were.”

There is silence. Caradhil wonders if he is the only one to be desperate to ask, but suspecting it would be unwise. He looks at Gimli, now as often the more placid of the two, and raises an eyebrow, but although there is an answering twitch, not quite a nod, there is no more, and he thinks he will have to wait.

But no. 

“I have no piercings. I,” he breathes, “I have worn jewels on my ears,” and this is shocking enough. He swallows and looks at Caradhil, “but I cannot change my ears. You were right about that, Finbonaurion.” He turns to the whole group again, and then, with a flamboyant gesture, and Caradhil wonders where that was learnt, and why, and decides it is probably best not to know, he throws off his tunic. 

It is a warm night. They are elves. Caradhil and most of them have known Legolas since he was an elfling himself, or since they were born. Elves have no modesty. They have seen him bared to the waist or stripped hundreds of times over the years – all except the youngest elflings – and, he is an elf. There is no change now.

Except.

Except the symbol over his heart.

Caradhil does not recognise it, it means nothing to him, for a long moment, he stares, as do the others. Then the shape begins to make sense. It is the letters of a name – what else – in runes. Enclosed in a star.

“And,” he makes himself speak calmly, “is there a matching one? Tengwar in a leaf?” he turns to Gimli, and smiles, “because if so, that is a very beautiful idea. And I am saddened that you have covered it from us so long, my prince.” And, he thinks, I am saddened that I have no love to do likewise for.

“Ada,” he is distracted by a most insistent voice, and a hand in his hair, “Ada, why has Legolas got drawings on? It’s not fair. You told me off, you said I wasted the ink when I drew a horse on my hand.”

Caradhil laughs, and he is not the only one, relief at the breaking of tension has them all laughing, and he speaks softly to Tegylwen,

“Yes, my love, iel-nin, I did. Because it was not, truth be known, a very good horse. And the ink is expensive. Practise. Or find someone who can draw. And when you are a grown elf, you shall decide if you want a horse on your hand, or anywhere else. Or stripy hair, like Ada. Or pretty blond, like Legolas. You shall choose your looks, iel-nin.”

And as Legolas sits again, and replaces his tunic, as Finrusc, who is not a bad elf, just thoughtless, comes to apologise and make his peace, as Gimli meets Caradhil’s eye and gestures smiling to his own breast with a nod, Caradhil thinks, well, that went better than I thought it might. They are interested. 

Holding Tegylwen on his lap, he buries his face in her hair, in the dear scent of her – and thinks – I may have no love as all the songs tell, but – none could be dearer to me than she. Perhaps I will think about an inking after all.

One day. 

There is no hurry. I am an elf. I am patient, I can wait.


	27. Chapter 27

Faramir is looking older, Caradhil notices, the man is starting to show the passage of time. He supposes it has been – how many years – nearly twenty perhaps – since that first meeting, and although they are used to dealing together now, although he has never ceased his liking for the man, for his habitual respect for elves and all things elven, sometimes it seems to Caradhil as if they have no understanding of each other at all.

“You must be pleased to have a son,” he says, “sons are what matter, what gives us a future. No doubt you have gifted your wife something most beautiful? I remember the day our Boromir was born so well – it remains one of the most precious days in my life.”

“We are indeed pleased to have a second elfling,” Caradhil tries to be cautious in his correction, but really, “and Tegylwen is delighted with her brother, Taithel. Although I fear for our people if she trains him in all the ways to ensure I do as little work as possible, as she threatens. But – my lord – please – do not refer to Meieriel as my wife. Neither she nor I would thank you for the assumption. She is the mother of our elflings, she is my friend, my combmate, my deputy when need calls. She is not my wife, nor I her husband. We are not bound in love, not in the way elves need for those words. And,” he decides he may as well continue, by Faramir’s face there is little to lose, “my son is no more precious to me than my daughter. It is strange to me that you would think so, so proud a father as you are. Nor indeed would I demean Meieriel so by presenting her with a gift, as though our child were something she wrought only to please me.” He pauses, and smiles as best he can, “apart from that, I thank you for your words, and say again, we are indeed pleased to have a second elfling.” 

Faramir looks mortified, and also bewildered,  
“But – you say she is not your wife – you live together, you have children, how else would you call her? And – you mean you would treat your daughter as you do had your son been born first? That is indeed strange to me, for surely she will now have no hope of ruling your people, no need for all her booklearning, not now you have a son. I mean no offence, I – I know not what I have said so wrong.”

Caradhil sighs,  
“I know you do not. And it makes me wonder that our peoples have so long a history of peace, when if I were to make the same speech to any dwarf, whom I was long taught to mistrust, they would understand every word.” He looks down for a moment, then, “how can I know which of my children will have the skills they would need to succeed me, until I try them, until they grow? How would I not delight in my daughter merely because I have a son? How would Meieriel not delight in him merely because she has a daughter, for that matter?” He gives a small laugh, “besides, I am an elf – what need for either to succeed me all the while we have peace? My lord King, you will remember, has ruled his realm for more than an Age, despite his three sons.” 

It is Faramir’s turn to shrug in hopeless acceptance of their differences,  
“I hear your words, I try to understand. But – in the end, the only ones that make sense to me, are that you are an elf, and all is different for you.”

Caradhil nods,  
“I thank you for your kind wishes anyway,” and turns to the business of this visit.

 

 

Taithel is as different from Tegylwen as pine from oak. At least, to Caradhil he is. To others, apparently, the two are merely as different as one pine from another. 

Caradhil can see they look similar, both are true Silvan, with his hair colour, distinctive as it always has been even among his kind, and their Naneth’s bluer than blue eyes. But – to him, they are so different in personality. One, always planning, thinking, always bending others to her will, the other, so content to watch the world, to accept what comes, to ignore anything he does not like and continue quietly in his own way.

Yet – both of them are so determined, so quick to learn, so good at remembering anything shown or told. Especially, he finds, when it is the thing you did not want them to remember. 

He is glad he has always insisted on having them with him as much as they want. He could not bear to have missed any of these hours. He knows others do, even Meieriel seems happy for them to be apart for longer than he could manage – and so both elflings become visitors to Faramir, to Gondor, to Aglarond as the years pass. For Caradhil has always longed to travel, and now that he can almost reasonably claim a purpose, he is going to. 

A part of him grieves that he cannot take his children to his Forest, but – he does not wish to disturb the peaceful accord that has been reached. His King does not ask for his prince to return; to go himself would be to make the omission obvious. Those places are best left. Besides, it is a long journey. 

There will be time. He is an elf. He is patient.

He finds he appreciates the system of discussions he set up before the elflings were thought of even more now. Now he is able to assign parts of his work to others, to find himself space and time to – whatever they wish him to do.

He supposes the time will come when they would rather be with their friends, their own group than with him. He tries not to think of that. He hopes that perhaps one day, one day, one of them will wish to work alongside him in some way, but – that remains to be seen.

In the meantime, they are elves. They must learn to handle a bow, a knife, a pen, a horse.

And there are moments when he remembers teaching these skills to another elfling, but these elflings, his elflings, learn so much faster, more confident, laughing. These elflings look at him and he sees himself, his parents, his friend – for Meieriel is his friend and more than friend – in them, in their hair, their eyes, their expressions, the way they move. These elflings are fearless – too fearless he sometimes thinks, they have no idea that any could wish them harm, no caution. These elflings tease him back, run into his arms, play with his hair, touch his ears. These elflings comb with him, reverie with him, on him, in his arms. These elflings love him.

And he them. Beyond anything he ever dreamed.

Life is good.


	28. Chapter 28

Never did I think I would be so glad to have a dwarf live among us, Caradhil muses, yet – look at me. This lord my prince brought here – he is someone I can talk to of matters which distress elves, even Meieriel. She – she has never reproached me for my hair, she will not reproach me for my inking – how can she when it is the names of our elflings inscribed down my arm, twining round each other for support as brother and sister should – but – this – this that I contemplate next – I think she will dislike. I think she will, yet I will do it anyway, he reflects, and that is another way in which I know this is not love. The sadness in this finds its way into his song, changing the meaning,

“Enthas ermin men guiad

A sa garntheg, sa garntheg, sa garntheg...........”

 

“You know, among mortals,” Gimli says, quietly, breaking in, “it is youngsters who try to shock their parents. Bloody elves. You always have to do things differently, don’t you?”

Caradhil smiles, as best he can, the inking is more painful than he is prepared to admit, and he is revising his opinion of dwarves, “Of course. Elflings are not very interested in shocking. They are generally too busy singing. In fact, most elves are too content with life as it has been these hundreds of years, and will not change. That is like to be our downfall – I will not have my elves stagnate so. Whatever the cost to myself, I will keep them thinking, keep them trying new things. Bloody dwarves,” he continues, “you have been doing these inkings for hundreds of years, and yet it has never occurred to you to find a more pleasant way?”

There is a snort,   
“That, master elf, would defeat the point. You would show no courage, no disdain for pain, no true – grit – if there was no discomfort,” he smiles as he works, “but – this is your arm. It is not a particularly sensitive part.”

And Caradhil remembers the only other elf who has an inking, 

“But, master dwarf,” he replies, “I do not need your love or approval. So I am quite happy to tell you, this bloody hurts. And I can only hope it looks as good as I imagined.” My poor prince, he thinks, I wonder how much courage it took to have that star done? And why? But – this comes into the category of things he has learnt not to ask. As should the talk of jewels on ears – a thought he turns away from, yet cannot leave alone.

“I must ask,” he says, “but – do not answer if – if my prince would not wish you to. This – this talk of jewels on ears – he – he did not let you pierce them – tell me he did not?”

“No. Sadly.” Caradhil is frozen for a moment, then sees the grin, “of course he bloody didn’t. Wouldn’t. And – I would not ask it. Or want it. He – he would not look – right. But – the jewels are very nice,” the grin fades into a – reminiscing smile, “and before you ask, yes he wears them in public, but – only among dwarves. He is not so lost to elvish decency that he would wear them among you, or among Men.”

“I wonder why it is acceptable among dwarves,” Caradhil thinks, “but – yes. It does seem different.”

“Because you bloody elves think all dwarves ever see is precious stones, jewels. It wouldn’t occur to you we might look beyond them, as Men would.”

Caradhil feels his ears flush,   
“Perhaps. Sorry. I – I suppose it takes a long while to change old habits, old lies. We do try.”

“Aye, and for all my words, you do well, Caradhil son of Finbonaur,” Caradhil is touched by the patronymic, as he is meant to be, “and now, while this dries, and you cannot move, you are about to ask me of piercing. Not ears. So what? Nose? Tongue? Lip? Or – not on the face at all? – somewhere more – private?”

And now Caradhil can feel his whole face flushing at what the dwarf is implying,  
“I am an elf, Gimli. For one thing – there is no part of me that I am not expected to bare in front of all when the season dictates. For another – I am not in love. I have no lover. You know this. So do not pretend that I am about to act as dwarves do, simply because I say I will not be bound by elvish traditions, imposed by Noldor.”

There is another snort,  
“You really hate Noldor don’t you?”

“Of course. They think themselves superior. My King – “ Caradhil stops, “you do not wish to hear of my King.”

“No. No more than he wishes to hear of me, I imagine. Anyway, your possibly piercing? A ruby, no doubt. A single, a star. And, if I know Caradhil, not anywhere that will slow your speech. So – nose.” He smiles, and nods his agreement, “yes, Droin has plans. He sent you designs, and a couple to choose colours from. I was not to give them to you until you asked, so I have waited – he will be pleased he has guessed right I think.”

And Caradhil is touched at this evidence of friendship, and knows – he will have to do this now. Whatever Meieriel will say. 

 

Meieriel, it turns out, is not very interested.   
“It is your nose. Your arm, your hair, for that matter. You are not my love, not my One – it is not my place to mind what you do. So long as you do not expect my elflings to do any such thing. When they are come of age, if they choose to – then it will not be my place to have an opinion on that either.

She is right. But – it feels lonely, Caradhil finds. He is glad that Tegylwen can read, that even Taithel can recognise his own name, and that both elflings are enchanted with Ada having their names on his arm – “forever, Ada? Really forever?”

“Yes, iel-nin, ion-nin, because you will be my elflings forever. Even when you are grown–up elves, somewhere in my mind you will be my little elflings, and I will always love you.”

They are enchanted. They show him off to everyone. Which, Caradhil reminds himself, was rather the point. He winces though, when Taithel runs to Legolas and says,  
“Look, Ada has our names on his arm. Look, Legolas, look. It is because he is our Ada and he will always love us.” 

And his prince looks, dutifully, admiring, telling the elflings how lucky they are to have such a loving Ada, so brave, so strong. As they run off, gleeful at another thing to boast of, he turns to Caradhil and says,   
“And when they do something you disapprove of, what then? Will this be another way to rebuke them? To remove it? Is that your thought?”

Caradhil looks at him, and hears the old question – Caradhil, tell me Ada does love me really.

“My prince,” he says, “there is nothing they could do that would make me stop loving them. As any father feels for his children. Any father. Every father. Even those who cannot show it. However cross I might be. However hurt. You know that. They are more to me than anything. Than anyone.” He pauses, “more than you, even. I do not ask you if you would remove your star, should your love do something – dreadful. Why would you say that to me?”

Legolas looks at his feet, and bites his lip. The old flush is rising, as Caradhil has not seen it for years,  
“I am sorry, Finbonaurion. That was unfair. You – you are a very good Ada. I – I am jealous. That is all. You seem to be a king and a father, you manage both so well.”

“I have it easy. I have no evil to fight, no son to grieve, no love to miss.” Caradhil does not let himself sigh, does not let himself wonder if it would be better to have a love to miss than never to have loved. He does not let himself be drawn in to criticism of his King. “What think you of this new music? This – I have no words for it – this singing our elves have now. It feels – different. I – I like it. It seems – more – Silvan. Wilder. Stronger I think.”

“I had noticed your song – your song has begun to change. At last. It is – strange. Such a thing to change – I find it harder to accept than the hair,” he smiles, “I am an elf.”

And the conversation passes on.


	29. Chapter 29

Sometimes it seems as though they have been here in Ithilien for a long, long time, sometimes as though they arrived only a few seasons ago. He supposes, if he were to think about it, it is maybe sixty, seventy years. His elflings are nearly grown. They will be leaving soon – not leaving Ithilien, not yet, he hopes, but leaving the family group. They will no longer wish to comb with Meieriel and he, except as part of a larger group, and the thought more than saddens Caradhil. He knows, unlike most elf-parents, he knows that when the elflings are grown – there will be nothing left between he and his – not-wife. They will return to being friends, nothing more. There is nothing more between them, close friends, closer than he has been to any since the death of Aglarcu, but – just friends. There was a time when he wondered if the tales were wrong, if love could grow for elves as he is told it can for mortals – but no. It seems not. 

Caradhil does not fear he will be alone – he is Caradhil, there will always be a group for him to join, a group in need of his comb. But – he fears the loss of intimacy, the loss of this something more that has been so much to him. 

Even now, part of him would have another elfling with Meieriel, for the sake of the joy, but also to prolong this time, this part of his life. He has almost asked, has half-hinted, but – she has made it clear that two is enough for her, she is ready to return to herself, her trees. He will not beg. He has, after all, thanks to her courage, had more than he ever thought possible.

Sometimes he finds that when he thinks of Droin, his friend Droin, he does not know whether he is luckier – for he has his children – or whether Droin is – for Droin will one day be reunited with his love, his One as he calls her. Love, it seems, is not for Caradhil – in all these years it has not happened, and he supposes that Meieriel was right about that as well – it will not now.

He is thinking all this as he lies in the sun, half-listening to some archery practice, which he supposes he should also be joining in, but – for all he said as he gave that long-ago elfling his first bow ‘every day for the rest of your life’ – he feels indolent. It is warm, the sun is good, the song around him is pleasant, the wine in his cup is cool, there will be feasting and dancing tonight, and, for once, his prince is here. They seem to be here less lately, it occurs to him, and he turns to his companion,

“Is all well in your realm, my lord?” he asks, “I mention it only because we seem to see less of you these days.”

Gimli sighs, “Aye, Caradhil, all is well. Well enough. But – Droin and I – we begin to feel the years passing too fast and so much still to do. I find I need to be there working more, and – and elsewhere, playing, less,” he draws on his pipe, and adds, “oh, I know this is not play to you, you of all elves, but – I would not leave my work, my scheme, unfinished. And, it progresses so slow. As it must.” He sighs again, “It is some years now since Eomer died, Eowyn is dead – Faramir I think will not live much more alone, he loved her so. Men die so fast, even to my race. I do not feel my age, master elf, but – I know it is there.”

Caradhil had not thought. He knew of the deaths, but – it meant little to him. Even Eowyn was never someone he knew well – and – in all his years he is somewhat ashamed to realise, and he is not about to admit it, he has become accustomed to Men dying. It is what they do. He has never allowed himself to be close enough to any to grieve.

“Oh,” he says, and knows it inadequate, “I had not thought. I – how old are you? How long – “he stops, ashamed again at what he was about to say.

“How long will I live?” thankfully, the dwarf is laughing, “you have taken a while to ask that. Caradhil is not often so slow. I suppose – another forty, sixty years. Who knows? Droin – a little more, he is younger than I. Long to me, not to you, I think.”

Caradhil shrugs,   
“My elflings are not fifty yet, and the days of their lives seem long to me – and worth more than all the days before them. Length of years is no guarantee of their worth, my lord. Believe me. There have been centuries in my life that I barely remember, that were as a season, and there have been seasons so filled with – with happenings that seem like centuries in their importance,” he looks at Gimli, “but I think I am not the first to tell you that. I can think of one who doubtless can say it better than I.”

Gimli snorts,   
“No, you can think of one who feels it more, who would more dearly like me to believe it. He has not your gift of words – you know that,” he pauses again, “on which thought. I – I have a request. Now, before I am grown too old, too tired to think so. Long ago – long ago to me – I agreed – and I know not why I did – to go West with your prince. I know,” he holds up a hand as Caradhil opens his mouth in shock, “I know dwarves do not go West. He is insistent I can if I am with him. I do not know, he seems so sure, who am I to argue? However. We agreed to wait. Wait until Elessar dies,” he sighs again, “being young and foolish at the time, I assumed he would die as Men do. I did not think. Now I begin to understand. He – he may outlive me. He may not, but – I may be too old. I – I do not know how to speak of it to your prince. I will. When it becomes near. But – I would know – if I cannot – will you take him? Will you take my Legolas West? Caradhil, I would not have him die here, his longing unfulfilled.”

Caradhil is without words. Is this some part of what love is? His prince to risk the wrath of the Valar by this design. This dwarf – to take thought, not for his own death, but for the pain, the need left behind. He is awed.

He turns his mind from this to the question asked.

“No,” he says slowly, “no, listen do not curse me yet, no I cannot promise you I will go with my prince at that time. I cannot, my lord, I have children. I cannot swear I will leave them, I do not know if they will need me still. I do not know if I could bear to go,” he hesitates, then, “but what I can swear, I will see that he goes, that there is someone to go with him. If I can, I will go. If not – I will find one whom I can trust. I – I would not have him die that way, any more than you. But – I know my prince, his will is strong,” he looks at the other, and looks away, the pain, the love in his face is too raw, “if he says he will sail with you, I think he will.”

And, he thinks, I will give thought to this. He will need a ship. There is no need to begin yet, but – this river of ours leads to the Sea. Our people have always begun their voyages on the river, so shall my prince. I will begin to find out the craft of ship-building. I will write to Droin. If he knows not, he will find out for me – I can trust him. And if he guesses why – he will not ask, for love of his lord as I love my prince.

That which my prince needs, he shall have while it is in my power to provide it.

 

 

Taithel is now of age. Caradhil knows he should be pleased. To have brought up two elflings, both of whom are now adult, capable, skilled, part of groups – this is an achievement. To have done so while creating a – a kingdom, in his own head he can use the word – and a landscape full of trees and plants – this is more. 

But. At this ceremony, all he can feel is grief. He hides it – at least, he hopes he hides it – he sees his son become an adult, he rejoices, he feasts, he drinks, he watches the dancing – and, when he can, when all are going to their combing – he slips away. 

He walks towards their flet – theirs no longer, he supposes, after tonight, there is no they. His heart is heavy and he wishes to be alone. In truth, he feels he is alone. His daughter – oh my Tegylwen – his daughter has a group of her own, she is on the way to becoming a leader, he is proud, he knows he is proud. His son – his son has joined another group – oh my Taithel. And Meieriel – Meieriel has made it clear she will comb with him alone no longer,

“There is nothing now between us – beyond friendship – and I would not have others believe so. If – if we find we are in groups together, or we wish to join with the other’s group for combing – that will indeed be a welcome reminder of times past. But, Caradhil, we have always said this was not love. Do not you try and change now.”

And they have changed their braids again. He is back in those hunter’s unwed braids he has worn so long, and for all that they now have the twists that show his children, he finds them – cold. He knows, he knows she is right. It is just – he so longed for love, he so hoped. Until she asked him, he thought he did not, that he knew it was not for him. Since then, since he had to know himself, face his own need, he has understood how deep that longing goes. But – there has not been one he can love. There will not be now, he supposes.

Yet, sitting here tonight, watching the stars, he thinks, I have not known every elf. I may yet love, there may be One for me out there. Somewhere. In some forest, some land far away. Though I mourn the time that is past, though I grieve for the days of my family, there is something I am still living for – and what is that if not love?

 

 

It is but a few seasons later that Meieriel and Taithel come to him, as he is working, and it hurts. It hurts that they have chosen to come thus, not to speak during a meal, by a fire, among the trees, under the stars – the stars I showed you ion-nin. It hurts that this is to be formal, it hurts – oh most of all it hurts that they will never comb together with Tegylwen, just four of them again. It hurts that they stand, waiting for him to finish writing, waiting to be asked to sit, waiting to speak to him. It hurts. 

And he finds it would be all too easy to respond. To hurt them. To treat them as any other elf, perhaps even colder. To see his own pain validated in their faces.

He wonders if this is what happened to his King. Is this what happens – is this why Silvans have never wished for power?

But – he is Caradhil. He will not act any way other than how he chooses. He will make of his life what he chooses, not what others would expect.

He stops mid-sentence, he stands, he pours drinks, he embraces his son, he touches ears with Meieriel – his friend. No more, but no less, he reminds himself.

“You do not wait,” he says, “never. You know this. Taithel, ion-nin, when have I ever asked you to wait to speak?”

Meieriel smiles, and as Taithel relaxes into his arms, she speaks,

“Never, Caradhil. But – we are not here for – personal reasons. At least – not only. We – we and some others – we wish to travel.”

Caradhil almost betrays his surprise but manages to control all but his nose.

“Indeed,” Meieriel notices, “you may well twitch your nose at me. Never have I accompanied you on your journeys, and now I wish to travel. But – you know I would have been reduced to consort had I gone with you to the lands of Men. And – I do not – we do not – wish to go that way. We – we hear of plants – trees – south of here. Towards Harad. We think of skirting the black lands, maybe eventually going east and north to Rhun. We – Caradhil – we wish to wander as elves should. We find – we have such a longing. Not for the Sea, not to go West, but – to see new lands.”

She pauses, and Caradhil searches for a response,  
“You need not come to me for permission – this you know. You will need stores, horses, all manner of things. Weapons. You must take weapons. – You know this. There is nothing I can teach you, Meieriel. But – all that is here is as much yours and your groups as it is any others. Take what you need. How – how many of you plan to journey?”

“Not many. Perhaps – thirty. We will not settle. We wish to journey only. Unwed elves. Wandering to see the world Iluvatar made. To learn its songs. As elves should.”

He nods, “indeed. And to bring the songs and tales and plants back perhaps? You – you will come back?” 

And though it is to Meieriel he speaks, it is Taithel, Taithel, ion-nin, that he holds, that he hears a tremor in his voice as he imagines the answer to be no.

But Meieriel understands. As she has always understood him.

“Of course. One day. We are elves. We have time to do many things in our lives. But – we will come back.”

And he supposes that will have to do. He is an elf. He can be patient, he knows how to wait.

 

 

When the day comes, and they ride away, the little band, singing, hopeful, he watches until they are out of sight. Watches his elves. No longer all Silvan red – there are many colours of hair now, blond, black, brown, blue – and shades between – though most keep a red streak to show their heritage. None would wish to be anything but Silvan. 

Their song is indeed changed, he thinks, as he listens. Harder, wilder, more – free. No constraints, no attempt at conformity with the conventions of the other races of elves. 

And the light glints on jewels, no longer rings or necklaces only, but piercings. Some like his own, some – more shocking. Even Caradhil has been surprised by the enthusiasm of some elves for such things. And as he turns away, he notices again how many of those who have stayed have – not just piercings, but inkings. How many wear – he searches for the words – the – kohl, the other colours on their faces. 

My elves. My elves choose their looks. They play. They live as they wish. 

They join with me in the decisions we need to make.

This I have made. This I am proud of.

It is not a great comfort. Not on this day, when his son, his precious little one rides away with only a single glance back. Not on this day when his daughter, the one who taught him what love really means, is busy with her group, will comb with them tonight, does not even see that he feels pain. 

Not on this day, when he cannot but remember another elfling who rode away, who looked back, who promised to come back – who came back so changed. Who came back an elf, but came not back to him.

He makes himself go back to work. There is always work. Droin told him long ago, how work can be made to fill all the holes in your life when love has gone, when children are not there, when friends are not enough. Droin was right.

He reminds himself again, he is luckier than Droin. He has his children. He will see Taithel again, Tegylwen is still here. 

But – his heart reminds him that Droin, Droin loved. Droin will see his One again beyond death. 

There is still time, he thinks, I am an elf. I can be patient. I have waited for my love all these centuries. I can wait longer. I will love, one day, I will meet my love, and I will know.


	30. Chapter 30

It is unusual for a king’s messenger to come with such speed, such urgency. Caradhil wonders what can be in this missive, even as he commands the man and his horse be cared for, fed, watered, given somewhere to rest. This is no letter from Boromir, son of Faramir, steward of Ithilien, this has come from Minas Tirith itself.

He opens it, and realises why the writing is so familiar. It may be from Minas Tirith, it may be brought by a king’s messenger, but this is from his prince. Reading it, he realises it is like to be the last letter he will receive from his prince.

Elessar is dead, it seems. Caradhil is not surprised. He was a man. They die. It is what happens. They die, and that is why it is best not to care too much for any man, only for families, or places. 

This time, the elves in Ithilien need not send anyone to mourn, this time their prince is in Minas Tirith. He will stay for the burial, and the coronation of Eldarion son of Elessar. He suggests – and Caradhil smiles to hear that finally his prince is learning statecraft – he suggests that it would be well for a gift to arrive in a few months, with some elves who can make themselves known and pleasant about the city.

None of this is his reason for writing, none of this is his reason for haste. Caradhil sees that all this – this is to ensure his letter is carried fast. Here is the important part, here is the part that his prince has needed to send to him.

 

............Caradhil, please, I beg you, I need your help. Again. Finbonaurion, I know I can trust you so I will be open with you. My Gimli – my Gimli is old. He – is old beyond the years most dwarves see. Droin, I suppose, ages too – if there is more you wish to say to him, I would tell you to write it now; though he is younger than my love you will not have much longer.

Oh Caradhil, help me. We – I – you know I have had this longing for so many years now. I need to go West. I cannot leave my love. He has said he will come with me. I – I have told him we have – I have – built a ship. 

You know – you know I have not. I know not how. I – I have never known any such skill, I will not learn it now. I do not care. You know how I am. Please, have this ship built – or nearly built – for me – when we arrive. So that my love has no reason to – to leave me alone here. 

Please. I fear he will – he will not last long – I need to be on that ship – I need him to come West with me.  
..........

 

There is not much more. Caradhil reads it, and knows this is the last letter his prince will send him. This is the last thing. 

He can feel the heartache in the words, he can feel his prince’s pain. This ship must be ready, there cannot now be long. Oh my poor prince, he thinks, now you must pay for these golden years. And the cost will be high.

He wonders idly what his prince could think he has to say to Droin that he has not said over all these years. Not really long to an elf – but – so busy. So much change. So many new lessons to learn. These years have seemed longer than they were. And Droin has been a good friend – he will miss him. But – he is a dwarf, a mortal. They die. That is how it is.

Elves die too, in Caradhil’s experience. And the grief is worse, because it is unexpected, because you have let yourself care too much, thinking it was safe. He stops this thought before he can begin to recite the litany of his dead; there are too many. 

He sighs, leaving the matter of what he could have to say to Droin, and returns to the point of this letter. 

It occurs to him that it is a good thing that the lord Gimli is a little more – prepared – than his prince. If this were, as Legolas assumes, the first he had heard of this scheme, he would be thrown into confusion. As it is, he has had many years to come to terms with the idea. In fact, he has decided he rather likes the vision of his prince arriving in Valinor with a dwarf. He wonders what, exactly, all the Noldor will make of such a thing.

The ship, planned so long ago, is – not ready – he has not known when it would be needed – but – nearly so. He is no fool. He has known the lord Gimli ages, he has known Elessar to be near the time he will chose death, for many months. He will not let himself think beyond this task, he will not let himself wonder what he will do with the rest of eternity if he has no prince to care for.

He goes to order the last preparations – and is careful to leave some small things to be done by his prince. He sends a message to Droin – he may wish to travel to the coast, to see this ship off on its journey, as neither Caradhil nor any elf can do. They do not wish to hear the gulls, to see the Sea, to be tortured by longing as they have seen their prince is. 

Besides, it might be – fitting – for dwarves to bid the pair farewell as they sail to the West.

 

 

Caradhil is not working when he hears the calls, he is with a group, combing, talking, listening, ensuring there is nothing which happens in the life of any elf in his realm of which he does not hear. But – he makes his excuses, and leaves. These elves – these are not elves who have come here for the prince. These are some who have come for their own freedom, their own way of life, for the joy of exploring somewhere new, of living in a way that has not been ordained for centuries. 

They do not run to greet the prince. They – Caradhil realises – they do not think of the prince as a ruler here. They acknowledge only him. The prince – is a guest.

He sighs, but – what does it matter now?

He is there as the horse comes up to the settlement. He looks at the sleeping dwarf in his prince’s arms, and thinks – it is a good thing that ship is ready. It is a good thing we have somewhere they can sleep that is not the flet. I do not think we will see this dwarf climb up there again.

So I suppose that is an advantage of aging. He will get his own way about that at last.

“Mae govannen, my lords,” he says, as the dwarf wakes, “my prince – I had your letter. As you commanded, all is ready. You – will stay here a few days? There are some small works to be still done – if you remember you had not quite completed your ship, but – I think you said merely a couple of days work remained?” and he smiles into his prince’s eyes, seeing the relief, the thanks, as clear and rewarding as it has ever been.

 

 

As the final adjustments are made, Caradhil finds himself sitting in the sun beside the dwarf – Gimli – and watching his prince. Watching him work – and it seems to him this must be the first time he has ever seen him do so.

“Daft sodding elf,” Gimli has not changed as much as it sometimes seems, “not you, pointy-ear – him. He actually thinks I am old and foolish enough to believe he made this.”

Caradhil is silent.

“Don’t even try to deny it. In fact, for my peace of mind – if I am going in the bloody thing, reassure me I am right. My love is no craftsman. He never has been. He has never worked as hard as he has this day in his whole sodding life. So – did Caradhil plan this alone, or was Droin in on it too?”

Caradhil laughs,  
“Oh my lord, you are too clever. You have always seen round and through my schemes – and never complained. I thank you. But – you told me of my prince’s wish to sail, years ago. You must have known I would do all I could for him. Droin – Droin has been consulted. He will be travelling to the coast even now. He wishes to say his farewells to you. I daresay he may even have remembered some item you have forgot. If I know Droin, he will have a list of things you are to do in Valinor, that you may tell him when you meet again in your Halls of Waiting.” He pauses, then, “Do not tell my prince I have confessed. He is very proud to have you think he has made this.”

“Aye,” the other laughs, “and I have let those in Minas Tirith, those who will tell the children of our tale, I have let them believe it too. How could I do otherwise? It does sound nice. ‘Then Legolas built a grey ship in Ithilien, and sailed down Anduin and so over Sea; and with him went Gimli the Dwarf. And when that ship passed an end was come in the Middle-earth of the Fellowship of the Ring.’ It is a better end than ‘then Legolas let Caradhil sort out all his problems as he ever did, and produce a ship, built by elves and at least partly designed by Gimli’s long suffering cousin Droin, so that Legolas could persuade a tired old dwarf that he would like to spend weeks on the bloody ship. For the joy of ending up in some land full of bloody elves and trees, and not much else I hear. And much good it would do poor Legolas, since when they got there not one of the sodding Noldor was happy to see him with his dwarf – and – and Gimli died soon after anyway. So the poor bloody elf had to choose to follow him to the Halls and hope Mahal would take pity on him and let him spend eternity with dwarves, including those he had captured so many years before – or – or else he would spend the long years grieving among elves he did not care for.’ No, the first is a much better end.”

Caradhil is almost crying with a strange mix of laughter and true grief by this point. 

“My lord, Gimli, I shall miss you. I shall miss my prince, for the care of him has been so much of my life for so long – but I shall miss you in a different way. I – I shall have to visit your cousin. And – perhaps your nephew or another dwarf will begin to write to me. I – I find I could not go back to the days when I knew only elves.”

“Well, I have achieved something then. If one kingdom of bloody elves does not bristle at the word dwarf, and hate us, and throw us in dungeons for no reason – then I have made something at least as lasting as my caves.”

“You have. There are many elflings here, many who were elflings too, who remember you, and your skills. And – perhaps there are some dwarves who will remember my prince and his determination all children should be loved and feel loved.”

“And be bloody sung to. Yes. I shall miss you, Caradhil. I gather most of the elves I shall be spending what little remains of my life with, are Noldor and the like. Which, I think, means – very proper. I shall miss your mad Silvans, with their hair dye, and inkings, and piercings.”

“Ah,” Caradhil says, “but what joy you will have to meet my prince’s mother.”

“Do not jest. Oh shit. I suppose it cannot be much worse than the look on his father’s face.” He turns, “can it? What is she like?”

Caradhil shrugs,  
“I was an elfling. She was – adult. She was – Sindar. She was a jeweller, I remember that. Perhaps that will give you something to discuss. But – she was strange to me. Stranger now. I – I cannot understand how she could leave her children. But I remember her grieving. So sad. So very sad. I am no help to you.”

“No,” and now Gimli sounds old and tired, “no, I had thought you would not be. If you knew aught that would comfort him, you would have said. Still, you know nothing to warn me of either, I notice. So that is good. I,” he yawns again, “I am sorry, Caradhil, I must sleep. Again. I am old. My poor bloody elf – I have no idea what use I will be to him now.”

Caradhil looks at him, he does indeed look old, and worn, and – and deeply familiar, “You will be all the use you have ever been my lord. My prince – my prince never was complete until he had you. I knew him all those years – and – he was never golden, never joyous, never truly carefree – until he had you. I think you know this, I think, my lord, you just wish to hear it again, from another. I think – were you not the lord Gimli, renowned warrior, ruler of one realm, and consort with power over another, you would admit you are – less than sanguine – about this journey.” 

There is silence, and Caradhil wonders if the old dwarf has indeed fallen asleep. Then, quietly, 

“Yes. If I were not Gimli, I might admit such a thing. But I am. So I have no fucking intention of admitting it.”

Caradhil smiles, and thinks to say,  
“The lord Elrond will welcome you. Surely. And – and your lady of the Golden Wood, lockbearer. Mithrandir may be pleased to have the company of one who is not an elf,” he pauses, and adds, “besides, when have you or my prince ever cared for the company or thoughts of any but each other? Truly?”

Gimli snorts,  
“You are, as ever, too bloody clever for your own good, Caradhil. Son of Finbonaur, I think you are wrong. I think there was one day – one day my Legolas was golden before he met me. And I think you have remembered it well all these years,” he pauses, and Caradhil cannot meet his eyes, as he suddenly understands that time when this dwarf seemed to mistrust him so, suddenly sees many things differently. Then Gimli continues, and this must be hard to say, “I – I wronged you. I am sorry. Not very sorry, because – I stayed my axe. But there was a long while before I could like you. Yet now – now I would have him go with you, live for longer, for ever, as elves should. Leave me here to die. I would not have him grieve, follow me. I – I would have him love again. And no dwarf expects to say that.”

Caradhil finds it hard to speak, he is humbled by such deep feeling. And he wonders – is this love? Does love make you feel so much for another that you would do anything to spare them pain, whatever suffering it would cause you? I – I have never cared for any like this. Except my children. Oh my Taithel, where are you? My Tegylwen, I would do anything for you.

And, of course, my King. But all elves feel that for our King. He has suffered so much, stayed so long, cared for us so well – how could we not?

He swallows,  
“My lord – I am an elf. I – I could not love him as you do. He – he has never felt that for me. That day you speak of – I did not know he even remembered. It – it was not love. It was merely – happiness. It meant nothing. All he ever wanted from me – all I ever wanted to give – was the love a father gives. And you may make of that what you will, but it is the truth.” And, he reflects, if it is not perhaps the whole truth – may the Valar forgive me, but I will not hurt my prince by saying more. I will not hurt this loyal steadfast lover. I will not risk the breaking of a dream for nothing, for it would be no gain to me. It is long since I wished for more than my prince can give. “For many years, I thought he was the only elfling I would ever have. Believe me. And – do not doubt his love for you is everything to him. He would be nothing without you. I saw him. I watched him, those months. Lord Gimli, your Legolas – my prince – could not survive alone here or in the West. Let him stay with you, let him follow you, add your pleas to his at the feet of Aule.”

There is silence again, broken only when the one they speak of approaches, singing, 

“Caradhil,” he calls, “come and see my ship. It is beautiful. I will sail at last. Oh my love, Gimli-nin, melethron, come and see.”

And the two share a smile, as Caradhil helps the old dwarf to his feet, and leads him down to see this ship.

 

 

This ship. Which is now loaded, ready to leave. 

This ship which will bear his prince away. 

This ship he is responsible for. It occurs to him again, that had he not been so organised, so efficient, he might have bought himself more time. 

But that would have been cruel.

He promised to serve. All those years ago, he promised. He has served, he has taken care of his prince. 

There is nothing more to do now.

He shakes off this melancholy, how can he be sad when his prince is so joyous? 

“Caradhil,” Legolas says, “this is for you to carry now. You are ruler here.” And he holds out his sword.

Caradhil backs away,  
“My prince, I cannot. I am no Sindar. I cannot carry such a sword,” I do not want the sword your father gave you. I do not want to take what is yours.

“You must take it,” Legolas is insistent, “it is too good to lie unused. It – it is a royal sword. You are king here now. You know this, Caradhil. And,” he smiles, “you are at least as skilled with it as I. I remember well your lessons. You may claim to be nothing but a wood-elf, but I learnt as much from you as from any other.”

Caradhil sighs. It is just – to take a sword. It seems – wrong.

“Truly, I suppose you will have no use for it. I – I shall return it to your father.”

Legolas shakes his head,  
“It was he told me to find an heir for it. And my lands. It was he who said there was one Silvan who could care for both. The sword is yours, Finbonaurion. I wish you joy of it.”

Caradhil agrees, as he has always agreed, to everything. But his heart sings to hear of such words from his King.

“One more thing,” he says, “my prince, your ship has no flag, no standard.”

“What matters that? I care not. Melethron, you do not care?”

“Do not care? Daft sodding elf, of course I bloody care,” Gimli has caught Caradhil’s eye and plays his part, “I am not fucking sailing in a ship with no standard like some – smuggler.”

Caradhil sees Legolas’ face fall, oh my prince, he thinks, you have not changed one bit in all these years. He sees the desperation in the eyes, and almost, almost feels guilt.

“It is fortunate then,” he relents, “that there is one ready.” And holds it out, “blue, not red for Silvan hair as ours is, but – the crescent moon of Ithilien, and the hammer of Aglarond. In silver, not gold as ours. To remind you where you come from, who you are. That all may see your ship and know the lords of Ithilien and Aglarond approach, yet know that you are no longer tied to these lands.”

Legolas smiles, and it lights up his face as ever it did, it pays all the time and care, it is all Caradhil has ever asked from his prince.

“I thank you, Caradhil Finbonaurion. As ever. And,” he swallows, “and I confirm you in your rule of this land, of these elves. As though you needed my words. Be happy, best of elves, best of friends, be happy with your children, your realm. Think of me, and I will think of you.”

Caradhil manages a laugh,  
“No you will not, my prince. You will have thought only for the one who is beside you. You will think only of your lord, as you ever have. Be happy. Tell the story of the elves of Ithilien to those you meet, that our ways be known in those lands. Enjoy your new adventure, and – greet Droin for me, when you see him again, in the Halls of Aule.”

The eyes shine, bright with happiness,  
“I will. I will indeed. Remember me to the Forest, when you go back. Tell – tell Ada I am happy. He – he may wish to know.”

And as Caradhil nods, he suddenly realises,  
“You – you have told him? You have bid him farewell? My prince – you –“

“I told him years ago this day would come. He was not interested then, there is no reason to think this changed. Enough. You know. You know I am going, you are the only one who matters. I – I thank you again for all your care, your love, I – I have been blessed to have you. Fare you well, Caradhil Finbonaurion, ruler of Ithilien.”

And there is one final touch of ears, one final embrace, and – the ship is underway.

Caradhil watches, watches it sail down the river, out of sight. He watches the sun on the bright hair. He hears the song, sometimes one voice, sometimes two. He watches, but there is no looking back.

He stands watching the river for a long while.

He finds he has no song.

 

 

He feels a hand on his shoulder,  
“Ada, Ada, there is nothing to see now. Come – come and eat. Come and comb with us.” And he realises that the day has flowed past as he stood there. Tegylwen, oh iel-nin, Tegylwen has come to find him, is leading him back to the gathering place, and he thinks he will go with her, he thinks he is lucky to have such a daughter.

He sees the flag of Ithilien, the flag they adopted when they no longer wished to be merely part of the Woodland Realm, for all they speak of allegiance. The flag that says this, this is a separate elf-land, this land has links with others. This land – does not merely bow to the whim of its ruler, this land is ruled by agreement with the elves who live here. This flag, red with its gold crossed crescent moon and dwarven hammer, flying among the trees, among the flets, the workrooms, the storehouses, the feast-area, the dancing glade, the archery range, the many, many combing places and he thinks he is lucky to have such a realm.

“There are many things to be discussed tonight,” his daughter knows him well, “all have opinions, all must speak. But – I think that although all elves here are equal, one is – more equal. Is Caradhil not?”

And they share a smile, as he acknowledges her words, and adds,  
“One? – I think there might be another. Iel-nin, you are very like me. I have seen you comb. What Tegylwen thinks tonight, those she combs think tomorrow.”

And what pride there is in that.

What pride in a daughter who will join her voice with his as they walk, arms across shoulders, singing the old song,

“Thaun enedh-riw! Thaun enedh-riw!  
Lais-gin gelin eldhenthaid...........”


	31. Chapter 31

“Enthas ermin men guiad  
A sa garntheg, sa garntheg, sa garntheg......” Caradhil sings as he approaches his Forest. The days of riding alone have been a joy – it is the first time he has ever travelled so far alone, and he has found it strange. Yet at the same time – freeing. Perhaps, he thinks, perhaps elves should be alone more often. Perhaps our love of our groups blinds us to what we can be, how we can think when we are alone.

That is an interesting thought. He will have to return to it, explore it more. He wonders what Tegylwen would say. And notes the irony in his immediate wish to ask her – but there are times when it seems to him that she is the one good thing in his life. Dearly as he loves his son, he does not know when he will see Taithel again – and he has always been more like Meieriel, more interested in how things are, than in how people should or could be. Much as he loves Ithilien and his elves – there are times when he tires of it all. It is not a game anymore, it is real. It is – always there.

And still – there is the longing, the dream in his heart that one day, one day, there will be love. He wonders sometimes if that is why Meieriel went away. If she hopes to meet her elf somewhere in those lands she wanders now. He wishes her joy, he just – feels lonely sometimes. The tales never said how long, how long you must wait. No-one ever said it could be so cold, so hard to wait.

He shakes himself. This is no way to behave. He is Caradhil. He has power, he has children, he has done things no Silvan hoped to do, he has made much of his life, he has made much of his people. He has served his prince well. And now he faces a reckoning.

It is the first time Caradhil has been back to the Forest since he left. He does not want to go now. He does not want to take this news to his King.

But – it is the last service he can offer his prince. He promised he would do this. 

He supposes it is unlikely to come as a surprise, but – he did not want to be the one to bring this news. To hurt his King so.

 

 

The Forest is as beautiful as ever, to his eyes. Unchanged it seems, though he supposes there are less of the spiders, less evil. But – it is still his Forest.

As he rides through it, he feels ghosts of other times alongside him.

His parents, oh Ada, Naneth, do you look at me with pride? Is what I made of my life to your liking? Do you see my children, do you understand why I changed the ways of elves for them? Did I – did I do well by them, as you did by me?

Brethylf, his love for trees still aching through him. Do they have trees in Mandos’ halls, Brethylf, my dear, he wonders?

Aglarcu. Oh Aglarcu. I never meant to hurt you so. I remember these paths, walking here with you in spring, in summer, in autumn, in winter. Always you would follow me, help me. Always you tried so hard to please me. I never knew. Is there someone now who can value you as you should be valued? Cherish you? Be what I could not? Is that what happens, beyond death, do we find the one we could love? The one who loves us in return?

But everywhere, everywhere, is the elfling.

When he was an elfling, small, big eyes, grubby, afraid. Uncertain. Always seeking that which he could not find. The way he looked at me and I was lost. The way he was always so alone, so frightened – but he looked at me, he clung to me. The way he was uncombed. Hearing him ask his brothers, so desperate, so sad, so lonely. Until then – I could maybe have walked away. Since then – since then the rest of my life has been his.

When he was older. My prince, oh my prince, how I dreamed you would one day be a King. A leader. How I tried to teach you all I knew. I saw you learn to shoot, to use your knives, to stalk, to fight, to live in the Forest. I saw you learn to comb, to charm others – oh you never learnt to persuade, to dominate by your will, but you learnt how to have the whole group love you, protect you, care for you. And I learnt that was all you wanted. You did not want power, you wanted love.

A golden day, once, not so very long ago, not to an elf. That day, that day, when my prince nearly loved me. 

That day when all went wrong. When he left, and came not back. Not to me.

When he came back he did not know his Forest, did not know his elves, his group, he did not see us. Our love was not enough.

He never really saw me. Never knew me as I long to be known. As I once dreamt perhaps he would.

Caradhil sighs. This was long ago. Do not think of that grief, think of him as you saw him last, joyous, taking his beloved West. Think of that brave little ship heading down the river to the Sea. 

And all the years between – nothing to an elf, but – a lifetime to a dwarf. A life of happiness you have seen them have together. 

His mind has wandered, he realises, and he is at the Halls already.

Unchanged they seem, as though, were he to look, there might still be a prince somewhere within them.

There is not. They are all gone now.

His prince is gone over the Sea. The others – went years ago to Lorien. Once the Lord Celeborn had left, gone to Imladris, they went there. They took their wives, their children. All. He does not know why – his prince did not know, nor care to know.

Now, now there are only Silvans left in the Forest.

And their King.

All his sons gone. Alone he stays, ruling his kingdom, caring for his people as he has cared through the last Age, this Age and for how much more, all the long years.

Caradhil wonders how that feels. To be alone so long. His love gone West, one child dead, two gone to another realm, one – never known. The pity of it. His heart aches again.

 

 

He greets those he sees, and again it is as though he left days ago. He does not notice the raised brows, does not hear the whispers. He has forgotten his hair. Forgotten his piercing. Forgotten that although his sleeves are long, they fall back when he moves his arms, showing his inking. Forgotten the sword he wears. Forgotten that he is Caradhil. All have heard of his deeds, his realm, his friendship with Men and dwarves. His children born from something that was not love.

These elves are those who prefer their Forest. Nothing has changed here. None care to hear of the wider world. Caradhil does not give his news. There is one who must hear it first from his lips.

He goes to the Hall, he waits his turn as any of the King’s subjects may, and when he is bidden, he approaches and kneels.

“Caradhil Finbonaurion. Long indeed it is, in the count of mortals, since you came to me and asked to leave,” the languid gesture to rise comes, and Caradhil does as he is bid, “what brings you back to my realm now?”

And suddenly all the carefully prepared words are gone, and Caradhil can only look helplessly at his King, can only feel that he is standing before a father with news that no father should have to hear. For an instant, he imagines some elf coming to him to tell him that Tegylwen, that Taithel, has gone. That he will never see them again. And the pain that cuts him even at the bare imagining feels like a knife.

Something in his eyes must speak to his King. His eyes run over Caradhil, and there is a frozen moment when he sees the sword at his side. Thranduil turns away, makes another gesture with his hand, and the surrounding elves leave. Still turned away, he speaks, cold as ever,

“Well, Finbonaurion? You have, I think, news for me. News long expected. My son. My son – tell me, Finbonaurion – where is my son?”

Caradhil swallows, and tries desperately to keep the heartbreak from his voice, this of all elves does not wish to hear of his own pain,

“He – my lord King – your son – Legolas – he has gone. West. He has sailed.”

There is a silence.

“He was joyous. I – I saw him board his ship. I watched it sail down the river from our land. I – I had news from one who saw them at the port, that they set off, singing.”

Indeed, Droin was good enough to come in person and tell Caradhil of their leaving. Caradhil could not go. He could not risk the sight or sound of the Sea. He would not. Even for his prince, he would not risk the longing that would sunder him from his children.

But he realises as he finishes speaking, the mistake he has made.

“They?” there is almost a tremor in the voice, “they? Finbonaurion, who is this they of which you speak? Did others of your elves wish to sail also?”

Caradhil closes his eyes for a moment, looking for the strength to say this, cursing his foolishness.

“My lord King, I meant – your son did not sail alone. There were no elves who wished to sail,” he pauses, “as for so many years, his companion was the dwarf. Gimli, son of Gloin.”

His words, quiet though they are, fall like raindrops into a still pool of silence, and the echo seems loud. 

He can barely bring himself to look at his King. The still figure facing away from him, one hand, he can see it, outstretched as though to call back, to reach out, slowly, slowly, it clenches into a fist and sweeps down through the air.

There is silence.

Neither elf moves for a long time – by the standards of any other race. 

Caradhil waits. He does not know whether to tell more, of the ship, of the brave flag waving in the breeze, of the happiness on the face of his prince, of the love that after all these years – not so many to an elf, but long to the dwarf as they must be – after all these years, the love that is so plain. He does not know whether to speak to the King, of the achievements, of his son’s realms, the honour his name receives in so many corners of this middle earth for his part in that Quest so many years ago. That fateful quest that saved the world and changed his prince so much. He does not know whether to speak to the father, of the happiness of these many years, the joy of love found, love chosen, love he vowed to keep forever, whatever it takes, beyond death. 

Of all these things he has tried to prepare words, but now – now he can only see the pain before him. And he is afraid to offer comfort – for what comfort is there? 

As he loves his own children, so he knows there is no balm that will heal this wound.

And he fears the rage of a wounded predator, were he to reach out and touch, were he to speak words of kindness.

There is another gesture, 

“Leave me, Finbonaurion, and by your courtesy tell them to admit no other until I give them leave. I will speak with you again before you depart my Halls, until then, revisit your Forest as you will.” 

“My lord King –“

“Leave me.”

He goes.

 

%%%%%%%%%%%%

As Caradhil leaves the room, Thranduil wonders what he thinks he could say to lessen the pain this news has brought. There is nothing, he thinks, nothing that could ease this ache. Yet, Caradhil, I do not sorrow at the news you brought me. Another of my sons has found a way to escape my fate, to escape the burden of Kingship. I sorrow at his leaving without saying farewell – but when have he and I ever talked. You were more to him than I. Always. And if there is one thing I regret, it is not sending you to Imladris with him – for if I had there would have been no dwarf in my son’s bed all these years.

No dwarf. And if there was no dwarf – perhaps then I should truly not sorrow. But he has taken this mortal with him. He has done as he said. He will choose to die when this dwarf dies.

He will die, far over the Sea, he will die. And I shall not know of it. Shall not know when to mourn my son.

I will not see him again. 

I will not sail West, not now. Now I have none to entrust with the care of my people. 

He almost gasps aloud at the pain of this realisation, this which he has half-known for some years, but has kept hoping would not come to pass. 

Now I will not sail West. I will never see my love again. Oh my Calenmiril. What will you make of this son? This son you never knew – this son I never knew. This son you left in my care, this son I so failed. I needed you so. He needed you. 

Now you will meet him – and he will no longer need you, no longer see you even. He will have eyes only for his dwarf, for the trees, the sights of that far land. 

I will linger here. Needing you. Unable to reach you. Oh my Calenmiril, will you tell my son of me? Will you tell him what I was once, when you loved me?

I never managed to tell him of you, I never managed to speak of our love. Perhaps if I had – perhaps he would have been able to speak to me.

Oh my Calenmiril, my love. Will you understand why I cannot come? 

Will you care?

All these long years – I have hoped to come to you. Now, now I know I cannot.

I love you so.

But – I am Sindar. I have a duty to my elves.

There is only one Silvan in all these years, only one Silvan have I seen who could rule. And my son has claimed his loyalty, my son has left his realm to him, to Caradhil. I have no such lieutenant. I cannot leave.

Oh my Calenmiril. The pain of knowing I will not see you again is such that – that I do not know how I can bear it. Save that I have no choice. I cannot leave. I will not see you again.

Neither can I die – for that would be to leave my elves alone. I will not die. And if I did – I would see neither this son nor you again. You are in the blessed realm, you are in Valinor. I cannot reach you. And this son - he will not be in the Halls of Mandos with his brother.

Where will he be, my little one? My Legolas? My green leaf? 

I know not where he will be, that little bat-like shade, squeaking and pleading that he be allowed to follow his dwarf. 

I will never see him again.

Never have chance to put this right.

I have had my chances. Wasted them. 

Oh ion-nin, my Legolas, my little one. 

Why did I tear you from this Silvan? Why did I not see he would have brought you home to me, he would have taught you to love me? He has always been loyal to me, and to you. 

Instead – instead I threw you into the arms of a dwarf, so lost, so alone, so afraid as you must have been, sent among mortals. Fearing my anger. 

And when you brought your dwarf to me, when you asked for my – blessing – is that what you hoped for – when you did – I was cold. I was – your King. Not your Ada. I have never been the Ada you wanted. 

I could not. 

And now I will never see you again.

%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%

 

It feels to Caradhil as though he is returned to the days after the Time of Battles. He is waiting, waiting on the word of a Sindar, waiting and he knows not for what. In truth, he wonders why he stays, what he hopes to gain or to give. 

The days pass and he finds he has seen all he wishes to see of the Forest. It is too full of ghosts, of memories, of time gone that will never come again. He begins to long for his own land, his realm of Ithilien, for it is his, he admits this now, now at last he need not even pretend. He wonders how all is going on without him, he worries. He knows his elves should fare well, he has left them with instructions, guidance, the habit of talking to each other to reach a conclusion. But – he wants to return.

It becomes clear that his King wants no more of him. He has not been sent for, and when he went to ask, he was informed that the King was busy.

So. So it ends.

All these years he has served his prince, his King.

Now his prince has gone over the Sea, and he will never see him again, for he knows his prince. He plans to die, to follow his love to – wherever it is dwarves go. Even if Caradhil ever hears the call, ever goes West, he will never see his sweet prince again.

And his King – his King wants nothing from him.

He resolves to leave in the morning, he readies his possessions, he takes his leave of the elves he has spent time with, he ensures all know that there is a welcome for any who wish to follow him. Any who can abide by the customs of his realm.

At dawn he leaves the Halls.

It is not far to the borders of the Forest, and here Caradhil stops for a moment, to say his own farewell to the trees he knew and loved so long, to the ghosts he has found here.

And, for a moment, he thinks it is one of those ghosts he is seeing, but whether it is his prince in the days when he was still young, still trusting of Caradhil’s word, or whether it is an older ghost, the prince he remembers from his childhood, the prince who rode away to war, and came back a King, he is not sure.

He had never realised how strong the resemblance is. Was. Has always been.

The horse comes closer, and he sees it is neither. His King has changed more than one might suppose. No signs of aging, for he is an elf, save in his eyes. His eyes that Caradhil can remember once were joyous, laughing, but for these many long years have been cold. Eyes which have seen too much.

“My lord King,” he says, and, as is proper, dismounts that he may bow and kneel, “I grieve to disturb your ride. I find I must return to my lands, having brought you only sorrow. May I take my leave of you, and depart?”

There is a silence. Caradhil remains motionless, head bowed, waiting. In the presence of Thranduil one does not do anything which might anger the King. Especially not if one has recently brought the worst news the King has received for many years.

Suddenly there is a hand on his shoulder, a hand on his chin, tilting his head upward.

“Stand up, Finbonaurion. Enough of your games.”

As he is bid, he rises, but finds he is still unable to look at his King’s face, he fears to see the dislike he thinks he can hear in the words reflected in his King’s eyes.

“I am sorry, my lord King – “ he begins.

“I said _enough._ ” And the voice is cold, clear, and soft. Terrifying. Caradhil wonders what is going to happen to him, out here, on the edge of the Forest, in Thranduil’s realm. “Enough games. Enough of your pretence. I am not your King. Not anymore. You have your own realm now. Look at me, _look at me, Caradhil._ ”

And Caradhil looks. 

Thranduil stares at him, reading him it seems, for a long time. 

Caradhil waits.

He wonders what the King – for whatever he says, he is still the King to Caradhil – what he sees. He looks back. And he sees the King he has always seen, so wise, so powerful, so terrifying, so loved.

“You are not so different to I. For all your talk, your reforms, your encouragement, your elves still wish you to rule them. You to take responsibility, you to take decisions, you to lead. Do you enjoy it, Caradhil? I hope so. For you have held power for merely a century. If you do not enjoy it now, what hope is there for you in ten times that many years? And more. For they will not let you go. Not now. Not now Caradhil has proved himself. 

“Your – not your wife, not your love – your Meieriel has gone East, I heard. Wanderlust. Took your son. Left your daughter with you. For how long, I wonder? How long will you keep your child by your side? Do you really think she will stay forever? Do not deceive yourself. She will go, as children do. She will go to find her own place, her own way, and you will watch her from afar, unable to stretch out to her, unable to reach her, unable to hear her voice or touch her ever again, because to do so would be to plead. To show weakness. And that, Caradhil, that the King can never do.

“You are alone. You will always be alone. No other understands you. No other knows what it is to rule. 

“None but I.

“And so, you will sit there in your kingdom, and I in mine, the whole plain of Rhovannion between us. Both of us alone. Desolate. Feared. Powerful. Loved by our elves. Trapped.

“You will not return here to my Forest now. I will never visit your lands – how could I, when I came not there to see my son? This is our last meeting, elven-king, but in token of your success, I acknowledge you as such. As my equal.”

Thranduil reaches out to Caradhil, and touches his ears, in the way that equals touch to greet or farewell. Caradhil hardly dares believe this is happening, but the eyebrow is raised insistently and he finds he can return the gesture, albeit with trembling hands,

“I – I thank you for your words,” he pauses, “I think. I – I know not what to say.” In truth, he does not. He has never been so close to his King’s face, to his King except at sword point, and he finds it is disturbing his mind. He cannot breathe. His ears – his ears – there are not words enough for how he feels.

“Fare you well, Caradhil, Elven-King of the Realm of Ithilien.” And Thranduil is turning, is mounting his horse, is about to leave, and suddenly Caradhil finds a voice, finds words,

“All that you say may be true. I – I hope not all. But – one thing I know, my lord. You are and always will be my King, and I your elf, I am yours to command. I – I always will be. Fare you well, Thranduil, Elven-King of the Woodland Realm, of Eryn Lasgalen.”

There is no acknowledgement of his words beyond a slight dip of the head as he rides away. Thranduil hears them, but – what of it? Of course Caradhil is his elf. He has never thought otherwise. His gesture, his words – he meant them, but, he knows Caradhil is still his elf.

My poor Caradhil, he thinks, all these years you have waited, you have served my son, and now – now he has broken your heart. All these years you have been patient, patient as only an elf can be, and now he has left you. I wish you joy of your kingdom, but I fear you will find it not. 

He feels, for the first time for many, many years, he feels guilt. I tore him from you, Caradhil. I acted as I thought best for my son – and I know you would understand that now you are also a father – but I hurt you too. And offering you the respect a king commands is no recompense for an aching heart, and I know it, but there is nothing else I can give.

Fare you well, indeed, Elven-King of Ithilien.

 

 

Caradhil stands, all his certainties suddenly stripped away. His ears burn. He feels again and again the touch. The casual brushing aside of hair. 

The softness of his King’s hair in his hand as he reached out. The feel of his ears. 

Caradhil forces himself to mount his horse. This is no place to stand and try to make sense of his feelings. He starts his homeward journey, but he sees nothing. 

Over and over that moment plays in his mind. His King’s eyes, his face, his breath, his mouth. His hair, oh sweet Valar his hair and ears to feel so. His King’s hands on his own ears, running through his hair.

He feels weak to think of it. His heart thunders in his ears, he feels sick and faint. He realises he has ridden all day. It is near dusk now. He halts, he almost falls from his horse, he allows it to graze, to find water. 

He sits, head in hands. He cannot put the thought out of his mind. His King’s hair in his hands, his King’s ears under his fingers. His King – his King to touch him so. To smooth those perfect fingers through his own Silvan, painted hair. 

Oh sweet, sweet Elbereth. What is this feeling? What is this longing? This – this urgent wish to turn. To go back. To throw himself at his King’s feet. To beg – to beg for more. Whatever the cost. He would pay it willingly. 

He would pay anything. Give up Ithilien. Give up all his dreams, his plans, anything. Just – just for one more moment like that. 

What is this?

This – this is stronger than anything. He does not recognise himself. He reaches for something, any part of his mind to hold onto. His children – he would not give up his children. He would not leave them. He knows this. He has said this – he would not even follow his prince to the coast lest he feel the call of the Sea and lose his children.

But – but a traitorous part of him whispers – your children are grown. They need you not. If – if leaving them to their own lives – if that was the price to be with your King, at his side, at his feet, his hands in your hair, on your ears, your hands allowed to reach up, to touch him – would you truly not pay it?

And he cannot answer.

What is this? What is this sudden need? This longing, so strong, this – this feeling that there is only one place he should be – and that is near his King. At his side, at his feet, at his command, at his call. 

Riding away – he feels he has torn something out of himself. Left a part of him behind. He feels he is bleeding, aching.

What does this mean?

What is this obsession? This – longing? This – what is it? This pain that he feels in his breast, what does it mean?

He admires his King. He has long admired his King. 

He – he aches for the pain he saw in his King’s eyes. The pain of losing a child. The pain of being trapped, unable to leave, unable to rejoin his love.

And the thought – the thought of his King – his King – his King loving – loving the queen. The thought is such a pain, such a bolt through him, as makes him gasp. It is a knife wound in him. 

The thought, the memory of his King, when he was joyous, when he had his wife at his side. When she danced with him, laughed and smiled with him. When – oh Valar – when she would have combed with him, touched him – oh please no – please not this thought – when she would have – Caradhil cannot find words – been with him. Loved him. The knife twists.

Caradhil almost cries out in this pain. 

She left him. Oh my King. She left you.

How?

How could she? How could she leave you?

You.

My King.

Thranduil.

You who are – everything. 

You who – who I love. Who I have always loved.

For now, now at last, Caradhil understands his own heart. 

All this time, he has thought love was not for him. All this time, he thought he cared for his prince for the sake of that elfling.

He remembers Meieriel saying to him ‘Do you not know how you love our prince?’. He remembers assuming she thought he loved Legolas – remembers he had wondered if he might have been able to, had events turned differently. 

Now he wonders if she knew even then. Did she read him so well? Did she know – did she know he loved the King? That Legolas – was as close as he could dream of being? That caring for – for the elfling – the elfling of – his One – was all he could do? 

And if she knew – do others?

No. No. He is sure of that at least. No others would think so. Only Meieriel has ever known him so well. And – he is not sure she knows. 

After all, he did not.

All this time waiting, waiting, hoping to meet his love. Hoping. Longing. Believing that when you meet them, you will know. 

That was a lie. 

All this time, he has not known. Perhaps other elves know, but he – he did not. All this time. 

Even now, he would not know. Had his King not touched him, he would not know. 

Oh my King, why? Why did you touch me? I – I was content. I have my children. I have my elves, my realm. I have my dream of what Ithilien will be. I have my memories of my prince, of the many I have combed with, of my time with Meieriel.

I – I had the hope of love.

All this time, and now he understands. 

He never met his love. He cannot remember a time before he knew him. Before Thranduil was the golden prince, prince of the Forest. An elf he would see, on his horse, with his sons, walking, sparring. An elf who was so golden. So beautiful.

An elf who rode away to war, in all his battle glory.

An elf who came home King. Still so beautiful. So sad, so cold. So wise. 

A King he believed in. 

And when his King, oh his King, when he did not care for the elfling – that was something Caradhil could do. It was a service. 

Always.

And when his King rebuked him, humiliated him, put his sword to his throat – it hurt. It hurt so much more than it should. So much more than any other would have felt.

When his King did not trust him with his son anymore – it hurt so, he thought he loved Legolas.

When his King asked him to take care of his prince in Minas Tirith, in Ithilien – he was so proud. So happy. So much so that he did not mind his prince chasing off after a dwarf. It never occurred to him to wonder why he did not mind, but of course, it did not matter. His prince was safe, his King was served. That was all he cared about.

Now he understands.

He never felt that moment, of meeting, of loving. He must have been too young to notice. 

He thought – he thought all felt similarly. He thought all admired the King so.

Now he understands.

His whole life he has loved, he has served, he has given, to one who can never love him, for he has already loved and lost. 

One who could never love him. One who is Sindar. He is – he is unattainable. He always was. He is the King. And a whisper inside says – he has called you a king also.

He was married before I was born. Married to one he loved so. And the whisper says – one who left him.

Three of his sons are older than I. And the whisper says – when has age mattered to immortal elves?

I am an elf. I do not know what this love could be – what I even want. He is as male as I. There is no war, and if there were – I could never be shield-brother to the King. 

I could never be friend to the King.

I – I could never be anything. I do not even know what I want to be. I have not the words.

I love him.

I – I would be anything he asked. 

But he will never ask. He does not want me. He barely knows I exist.

And – and I have children. I am not – unknowing as Aglarcu was unknowing, able to be content with the touch of hair and ears. 

Although – hair and ears. Oh Valar if I could touch him again once more – once more – oh Valar please.

And for a long moment, he allows himself to imagine – to imagine combing his King. Oh Valar. To comb him. To be allowed to stroke those ears, to comb that hair. To whisper comfort. To soothe away that pain, that coldness, that hurt. To use his skill. To serve his King, to bring him peace. 

Oh Valar. What would that feel like?

Oh my King. I love you. I – I would – oh I would – I would – I would only ask to bring you comfort. But – oh – but – you touched my hair, my ears. Oh. If only. If only.

To – to comb with you. I – I cannot imagine – I long. Oh how I long. I – I do not even know – I cannot think. Just – just to comb with you. What would that be like? How much it would be. How much more than all the combing I have had over all my years. 

If – if I could have that – just once. Just one time. I could not ask for more. I do not know what more there could be.

But, unbidden, images he did not know he could form rise in his mind. Longing for – for more than just hands and ears and hair. For – for kisses. For touches. For – for whatever it was that had my prince screaming so with his love. For – for that which Meieriel and I could never – could not – we did not love. It was good – but it was not as it should be. It was not as I dreamed it would be with one I could love. With the one I love. 

Oh Valar, oh Elbereth. What would it be with him? With my King? Oh I ache, I burn. I – what is this? Is this love? Is this desire? Is this what mortals feel? I – I want none of this. I – I cannot even say his name in my thoughts. I cannot. 

He is my King. He has always been. 

I love him so.

Caradhil groans in agony. This is madness. His King – his King cares nothing for him. He is – nothing. He is – that Silvan who thinks he can rule. That Silvan who leads my elves into foolishness. That Silvan who treats with Men and dwarves. That Silvan who has painted his hair. That Silvan who wears a jewel in his nose. That Silvan who – who has unelven inkings. That Silvan who has become – wild. That Silvan who led my son astray.

That Silvan who let my son go West.

He presses his hands into his eyes, to stop the tears, to stop the images, to make it all stop.

He holds himself around the waist, as he remembers his children doing when they were small and scared, trying to stop the pain, the knife inside him. Trying to make it all go away.

Trying to be as he was this morning. As he has been all his life. All these many years.

Trying to deny his heart.

He is an elf. His heart rules him.

There is no escape now from this knowledge.

Caradhil understands he will be forever alone, but now without even the hope, the dream of love.

He understands he will live from one letter to the next, longing for those words from his King. Even though they mean nothing, even though they are not the words he dreams of hearing. Even though the summons he will live for will never come.

He understands that all his work, his realm, his care for his elves, even his children – all will be nothing compared to the news a letter has arrived, and he can live in a breathless moment of ecstasy imagining it calls him.

And it will not. It never will. 

All he will have, will be his work, his realm, his care for his elves, his children. And – much though these have seemed – much though they are, they will never now be enough.

He watches the stars rise, and move across the sky, and there is no comfort there. He cannot even sing. His star has risen, his star shines over the road of his life, of his kingship.

But the road ahead seems long and desolate indeed.


	32. Chapter 32

Epilogue.

 

The decades have passed. Ithilien is blossoming, the elves are – settled. This is the only home many of them can remember. 

Caradhil looks out from his – study – and the word still brings a sense of loss, of missing Droin – and he sees his elves. So many. So varied. In hair, in inkings, in jewels and piercings, in song.

So – Silvan.

As Silvans were meant to be. Among trees, drinking, talking, perhaps hunting, singing, eating, lazing, combing.

No torments, no worries.

No wars.

For the first time for many years, he lets himself think of his prince, his prince who brought them here, and left. His prince. 

His golden prince.

Long dead now.

As he chose.

He tries to stop the thoughts, but they come, as they have come more and more often in the past decade or so.

The thoughts of Naneth, Ada, Brethylf, Bordond, Ioledion, Finthol, Tulusiel, Finathon, Aglarcu, dead in battle, of Legolas, Gimli, Droin, Faramir, dead from mortality, of Finrusc, Thandhun, Fironlhingel dead through ill-chance. So many, many dead.

All his many dead.

He is tired. Tired of this endless life. Of watching others die.

Of watching others love.

There has been no letter from his King for a long time now, it seems. Perhaps it is not so very long, not really. But – when a letter is all you live for, it can seem very long.

Not all you live for, he reminds himself, as he sees who is approaching.

“Ada,” Tegylwen begins, and then must see something in his face that worries her, “Ada, are you well?”

He sighs, for how can he confess his longing, his trouble? He is the king. The king does not have longings, or troubles. Not even to his dearest daughter.

“Yes, iel-nin. I am well. As well as ever. I – I begin to feel it is long since we heard of your mother, of my son.”

She nods.  
“They will be busy. Too busy to think to write. Or it is that there is no messenger to bring their news. You know this,” brisk and commanding as ever, she moves on, “and that is not what I am here to speak of. There are more ships coming downriver. More elves must be leaving the Forest, going West. I thought you would want to know. There may be news. There – there may be a letter.”

And as his eyes meet hers, he understands how well she knows him. She has always been frighteningly intelligent, frighteningly able to read him. She reaches out, strokes his ear gently, 

“Oh Ada,” she says, “did you really think I was so blind?”

He feels his nose twitch in shame,  
“I hoped.” He says quietly, “I hoped so. I – who else knows?”

“Oh Ada. None. Only I.”

And that is a small consolation.

 

 

The elves do indeed stop to exchange news, to change from their river-boats to the Sea-crossing ships which Ithilien has become so skilled at building in all the years since that first. That first that Droin designed for the prince and his dwarf-lord. As ever, they ask if any will join them – as ever there are none – but – there is no letter.

Caradhil does not allow himself to feel hurt. 

It is merely that there is no reason for a letter, he tells himself. I do not need help, advice, guidance as once I did. 

There are less elves coming to me from his realm. There is less to say, less to discuss. 

Perhaps I should invent some problem.

He forces himself to listen to the elf who is speaking, and is horrified by what he hears.

“Indeed, there are so few left now – the Halls echo. There must be fewer than when your group first came to Ithilien, Lord Caradhil. Or at least, than when you became ruler.”

He cannot help himself,  
“And yet you – you will not let your King go? Still, still he must stay and watch over you? Will you have him stay forever?”

He sees Tegylwen look at him, and forces himself to silence. The other elf is looking offended.

“Indeed, Lord Caradhil, we have said he is free to go. We have asked him to go. He says he will not. Not while there is one elf who needs him, he says. We are not so unkind as you think.”

And the ships depart, the elf still angry.

But Caradhil – Caradhil burns inside.

 

Tegylwen comes to him again, that evening, as he sits, alone, and watching the stars. As he remembers, as he lets himself remember, the most glorious, painful moment of all his long life.

“You have a longing in your heart,” she says, “Ada, do not lie to me. You wish to go to him. Go.”

He shudders, and covers his face.  
“And say, what? That I covet his Kingdom? His Forest? That I would rule there? How can I release him? How?”

There is silence.

Then she speaks, and Caradhil wonders who taught his daughter so well – for it cannot have been he, little as he has ever known of the complexities of love.

“Go to him. Tell him – tell him something of your heart. Perhaps – not all. He needs not know all. But – enough that he can leave. You could indeed rule his Forest for those few left. I will be here, I know our elves, our ways. You know this. Ada, will you not follow your heart? Just once?”

He is silent. And then, in a whisper, he confesses,  
“I dare not. What – oh iel-nin – what if he is angry? If he – as I said – if he thinks I am trying – trying to usurp him? If – if he thinks – I am not good enough? If – if he thinks I am ungrateful for all the years he has been our King? I – you have never seen him in all his splendour,” he looks at her, and tries not to see the flinch as she sees his tears, his pain, his shame, “I – I am afraid. Afraid of his anger. He – he put his sword to my throat once for speaking to him of my prince, his son. I – I cannot bear that again. I – I did not then understand my heart. It would hurt too much now. I cannot.”

She takes his hands,  
“Is this my Ada? Is this Caradhil? The first Silvan to rule? To say we can build? We need not Sindar? The first to have such hair? Such inkings? Such piercings?” she pauses, and almost shakes him, “Ada, if you were afraid of what others might say, might think, Taithel and I would not exist. You became friends with dwarves for your prince. You found new ways of living for elves, new ways to rule ourselves. You have done so much. I – I do not want you to go. I fear the loss of you. I fear – I fear that he will hurt you more by going than he does by staying. But – it is what you want. For you. Go to him. Serve him.”

And that last is what makes him think, yes. This I can do. This is all I have ever wanted to do. 

If I do this not, then my life these years since my prince went – what has my life been for?

 

 

Never did he think he would see this Forest, these Halls again. In truth, he barely sees them now. All he can think of is his King. 

He does not notice the elves he passes as he sweeps towards the throne room. He does not realise how he has changed since last he was here. 

Now, none would whisper about all his strange attire, his decorations. None would now see him as anything but the Elvenking of Ithilien.

None but one.

Caradhil enters the throne room, and, little though he realises, his name has gone before. The elves attending the King are ready, they scatter, they allow him to approach.

And now, now he realises that in his haste to be here, he has no words.

As though his King has ever needed words to read him.

For a moment Thranduil looks at him, as silent, as speculating, as cold as ever he was. He rises, and walks towards him, making a gesture with his hand to the waiting elves,

“Caradhil, Elven-King of Ithilien,” he says, calmly, “be you welcome in my Halls.” His hands move, and Caradhil suddenly realises what is coming, the ear-touch of equals, and knows he cannot bear it. He steps back, and answers instead,

“My lord King, Thranduil, Elven-King of Eryn Lasgalen. I would speak with you – alone. I crave your hearing.”

There is a pause, as the waiting elves leave. Thankfully, Caradhil falls to his knees,

“My lord King, I – I am your elf as ever I was. I am no king in your presence. But – but I – I would ask to serve you.” He stumbles to a halt. This is harder than he had thought. 

His King raises a most disdainful eyebrow,  
“I am not short of elves,” he says, and makes the gesture to continue, turning away.

Caradhil is relieved, he need not watch those eyes, and for more comfort looks to the floor.

“My King, I – I have heard – we hear – that your elves are leaving. That – there are not many here now. I – I know – I know you have long said you will not hurry to the West, to the Noldor – but – so many of your people gone – I – I know your Queen – your love,” he will not let his voice tremble, he will not, “I know she is there these many years. Will you not go to her?” he bites his lip, he is terrified of what he is saying, of the wrath he may bring down on himself for such impertinence, but, “please. My King – there are so few here now. I – there are many among your Silvans who could take such a trust. Please.”

There is a long silence.

Still facing away, the King asks,  
“And why would you care, Caradhil? My son – your prince – is dead now. I see you carry his sword no longer. There is no reunion for you to engineer. And – I will not insult you by thinking you want this kingdom to add to your own. It dwindles as its people leave. Unlike your land.”

Caradhil continues to look at the floor, he does not see the King turn as his words spill out,

“My King – I – my prince died happy. I am sure of it. He had his love with him. I – indeed I could in truth rule this land, my daughter has mine, she carries the sword of Ithilien. But – that is not why. I – my King – I – I would – I would – I long to – to know you are happy. Golden. As I – I remember you – so long ago. I – please. Please my King. I – I care not what happens to this land, these elves – I – I only – I would know you are content again.”

There is another silence. 

Caradhil stares at the floor, feeling his ears burn under the King’s regard. The King approaches him, and Caradhil remembers being forced up from the floor once before in this room, remembers the touch of hand in hair, remembers being shaken to his senses – to what then passed for senses, he corrects bitterly – and he knows he cannot bear that again. Without waiting for leave, he scrambles up, he keeps his eyes down, he walks away.

“Caradhil.” The voice is low, but it is a command. He cannot but obey. He stops. He does not turn round. He has not been told to, he will not. 

“Caradhil. What are you trying to say?”

He does not even try to read the voice. There can be no hope of the meaning for which he longs. He clenches his hands at his sides, he stands motionless until he can control his own words.

“I am trying to say, my lord King, that you have spent long ages caring for your Silvans. That now, now it is time to take thought for yourself. That – that there are many Silvans now in the West. That – that there are other Sindar there. That – your wife is there. That you should be with her. That – if you stay here until there are no elves who need you, you will never go. And that is not right.”

Another silence.

“So. It is not that you would have me believe there are no elves who need me. It is not that you would lie to me.”

“I could never, have never lied to you. My lord King, there will always be elves who need you.” And then, he knows he should not, but quietly, he cannot help himself, he must speak this truth just once, “there will always be one elf who needs you so.”

And – and his King walks away, into the echoing spaces of the chamber.

In the silence, Caradhil feels his tears run down his cheek. He has failed. His King will not listen, his King will not leave, will not be restored to happiness. His service is not enough.

“Oh my King,” he whispers, “I love you so. I do not know what else to do. I do not know how to free you. I love you so. I have always loved you, it seems to me. I will always love you. I do not know what more to give, what more I can do for you. I would offer you my comb, I would offer you anything, anything you asked of me. I long to see you happy again. I love you so.” The feeling of release at saying the words, the words he has hidden so long, the words he has spent his life longing to say to someone, is such that it never occurs to him to hope for an answer.

The silence is so long, he wonders if the King has left. Has he waited all these years only to speak his love to an empty room? 

Not that it matters, he reflects, there was never hope of love returned. All he ever hoped for was to be able to serve, and that too, it seems, is rejected.

Then he hears that voice, the only voice he has ever longed so for, speaking his name, and the sound is a caress,

“Oh my Caradhil. I did not know how well my son had chosen his protector, his Silvan. I thought, I feared, you had ideas of him.”

Caradhil shakes his head, he whispers again,  
“No. My lord King, always, always it was you. He – he was yours and needed me. What else could I do for you? What else could I offer you?”

“And then,” the voice continues, “then I thought that for the care of his lands he had chosen the only Silvan I have known to be able to rule. Leaving me here. But now, now you come to me and say go. And, I will see my love again. I shall sail at last. Caradhil, I wish you joy of this Forest, of these elves.”

And there is no more.

He does not know how long he stands, fighting for control, fighting back tears, digging his nails into the palms of his hands. Suddenly there is a voice behind him,

“My lord, my lord Caradhil, the King – the King is at the gates. He – he wishes you to come out to him. He – he is leaving.”

Caradhil turns, glad of his fight for control, and follows this puzzled elf to the main gates. 

Indeed, it seems his King is leaving. He is already on his horse, he – he glows. Caradhil looks at him, drinking in the glorious sight. Not allowing himself to think beyond this moment, this instant in time when all is perfect, when by his words, his King, his love, glows with happiness.

It does not last.

“I go. I go West, at last. My elves, your King leaves. Serve well your King.” Thranduil makes a gesture, and Caradhil finds the elves are kneeling to him, as one offers him the crown, another offers him a sword, still on its belt. He looks helplessly at his King, and there is a blink of impatience, an imperious click of fingers. He buckles on the sword, he takes the crown, he places it on his head, and as the kneeling elves hail him, he watches as the King, the only King to him, turns his horse, and rides away.

He stands and watches as the Sindar hair disappears into the Forest, and for a moment he remembers watching his prince ride away. 

This is worse.

Now, now he truly understands what heartbreak is.

He turns to go inside, and feels the weight of the crown settle upon him.

 

 

When the letter comes that says Meieriel is married, has found her elf, will never return from Rhun – he does not show his despair, that even this faint hope, that she would miss him as he misses her friendship, that this will no longer sustain him. He reminds himself that this is no surprise, that she gave him more than he ever thought to have.

When Tegylwen writes and says she is married, she has elflings, she rules, she values his words but – she does not know when she will have the time to travel – he does not show his hurt. In truth, he understands. He will write to her, she will write to him, they will meet again one day. He reminds himself to be patient. He is an elf, he can wait. 

When the pace of change in the Forest seems so slow, so slow that it will take him centuries to teach these now multiplying elves to govern themselves that he may allow himself to – travel, fade, he does not know – he does not show his anger, his impatience. He reminds himself he is an elf. He can wait.

When mortals come – he does not show his envy of their short, hectic lives.

He is the Elven-King. Ruler of the Woodland Realm of Eryn Lasgalen.

The crown is heavy.

His heart is cold.

 

 

When a Silvan comes before him, carrying an elfling, so small, so tiny, such wide blue eyes, a Silvan with painted hair, with jewels set in his ears, with inkings on his arms – he feels the crown pull at him. He feels the crown slow his impulse, make him cold. 

He stands, he takes off the crown, he runs to the elf, he gathers him in his arms, he strokes his ears, he touches the elfling.

“Taithel, ion-nin, ion-nin, who is this?”

And his son looks at him,  
“This is Caradhlas, my son,” he says. “Oh Ada, I need you. We – we two are alone now. I know nothing of elflings. Help me.”

And as he holds them in his arms, as he waves away those who would remind him of what the King should be doing, he thinks, I may not have love as I dreamed, but – I will not lose my children, or my children’s children.

My star will shine. I will not fade. 

I am Caradhil.

This I can do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those who have stuck with Caradhil, thank you!  
> You may like to know some translations.  
> Caradhil - Red star
> 
> His song  
> Thaun enedh-rhiw, thaun enedh-rhiw,  
> Lais gin gelin eldhenthaid.  
> is the closest I can manage to the words of Tannenbaum (O Chirstmas Tree), which is sung to the tune of the Red Flag.
> 
> Hence his brief interest in the idea of collectivisation for the farms around Erebor, and his development of combing groups - very like the orginal soviet councils.
> 
>  
> 
> As he becomes more interested in personal freedoms (having gained political freedom/power), his song becomes  
> Enthas ermin men guiad  
> A sa garntheg, sa garntheg, sa garntheg.  
> which is the closest I can manage to 'There's only one way of life, and that's your own, your own, your own', by The Levellers.
> 
> I am not trying to make a political point, except that middle earth is a bit too keen on hereditary kings, (in my opinion) and this is not always a successful model........
> 
> there are a few other names that have meanings, but I will not bother to go through them all, because I really doubt anyone cares........;)


End file.
